


Still Connected To The Moment It Began

by inkythumbs



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Phase Five (Gorillaz), Phase Four (Gorillaz), Phase Six (Gorillaz), Phase Three (Gorillaz), Redemption, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Vomiting, maybe or maybe not i cannot confirm or deny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkythumbs/pseuds/inkythumbs
Summary: (Set on Plastic Beach and extending past that to near present day. Contains quite extended description of vomiting and physical abuse so be careful.)2-D is trapped on Plastic Beach and Murdoc is awful and unforgivable until he isn't.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot
Comments: 37
Kudos: 118





	1. 1

2-D doesn’t suppose he'll ever really get used to the fumes permeating from all sides. He wakes with a head full of chemical air that smells distinctly, dizzyingly _pink_. He inhales as he moves and regrets it in an instant, the taste of plastic coating his tongue. A familiar sick squeezing twists in his stomach and he collapses over the side of the mattress, mouth open and heaving, fumes thick and perverse in his throat. He gags once, twice, three times but nothing comes out. Strings of saliva drip from his open mouth and he spits, as if it will purge the chemical burn that seems to fill him. He guesses that maybe one person can only produce so much vomit. He wipes his lips on the back of his hands and stays there, draped from the mattress to the floor like some decorative throw, and tries to go back to sleep.

  
It’s another one of those sweltering days they’ve been having recently, never hot enough to melt away his prison and facilitate his escape, but warm enough to fill the air with the acrid fumes of plastic; exposed to sun and then aggravated with sea spray. It’s one of those days where Murdoc will likely be lazing on his sunbed on the balcony all afternoon if he’s awake long enough, Cyborg Noodle sturdy and silent next to him, ever-watching for any danger that might come upon Plastic Beach. Maybe he's there already, passed out in the heat or semi-conscious from alcohol or dazed on drugs, all almost certainly with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. 2-D can’t be sure, though; he never knows what time it is. In his submerged prison, the only light is the sickly greenish-brown of polluted water behind the porthole. Even if the light happened to be clear, he would keep his curtains closed at all hours anyway so he wouldn’t catch glimpses of the whale right outside, omnipresent and terrifying. 2-D can only estimate what time of day it is or how long he’s been captive here when Murdoc and Cyborg take him upstairs and he catches a glimpse of light or dark or dusk as he’s escorted to the studio and forced to sing.

  
At first, it was bearable. Well, at very first it was infuriating that Murdoc thought he could just kidnap him and imprison him on some pile of trash as if he didn’t have his own life – he screamed and cried and fought as Murdoc and Cyborg wrestled him into his prison. But then Murdoc punched and kicked and choked him and he remembered why he hadn’t lived a day whilst he was gone without finding himself checking over his shoulder or listening for footsteps approaching in the dark even when he was alone. After that, 2-D had fallen straight back into old habits; following Murdoc's orders to stay in the basement, biting back with a snarky remark every so often – the smack he received in return was his sole form of entertainment – and retreating back into his quiet state afterwards. Yet in those early days, even through the strain, 2-D still felt his thoughts unravel and dissolve as he melted into the music. For a few minutes it would just be 2-D, hands to the piano and voice in motion and he would fade into the sound. A familiar smell of cigarettes would come closer, wrap around him, making his muscles tense and he would almost lose focus. Then it would falter, coming no closer, and he would relax into it as it became a comfortable presence. For a few minutes it would just be Murdoc, stood behind 2-D, not monitoring him but simply watching him, directing him every so often in a voice so low and calm that it was almost indistinguishable from the steady exhale of cigarette smoke. For a few minutes it would just be 2-D and Murdoc and he felt almost like he used to a long time ago. A long time ago – when he thought Murdoc was cool and being in a band felt like falling into place and he did as he was told because he wanted Murdoc to like him, not to prevent himself getting hurt – 2-D liked Murdoc. A long time ago, when the band was just a duo and Murdoc was excited about his new singer and his dream was in sight, Murdoc liked 2-D. It was nothing more or less as far as either of them wanted to think about but it was comfortable and it was fun and sometimes Murdoc would sit by him at the piano, just admiring what he’d created, and 2-D would glow inside. In the early days on Plastic Beach it would just be 2-D and Murdoc for a few minutes and he would sing, enveloped in sound and smoke and stillness. 

  
Then, as ever, 2-D would put too much of his own creativity to the song and Murdoc would lash out, reprimanding him with insults and a hard smack and he would remember that now he was just a voice for hire. And yet, in the early days with these few minutes of bliss, it was bearable – the music would make that happen.

  
Now, he’s pushed into the studio with Cyborg's handgun to his back and Murdoc grinning with no warmth behind his eyes. The stool is uncomfortable and plastic and the fumes from the summer heat is worse up here and 2-D gags. A sharp swat sends his dizzy head reeling and his body falters forward in his seat, then back, then straight. His hands find the piano on their own as he falls into this position, they must do, because 2-D doesn’t want them to play, not anymore. Sheets of paper with ragged, ripped edges fall onto the piano and immediately the music begins to form in his mind. He shakes his head; tries to scatter the notes coming together but he can feel a migraine building and he just needs to get through this so he can get back and take his painkillers.

  
The first chord he plays seems a harsh screech, no longer a soothing rush of noise for him to drift away on. His skull feels in danger of cracking and he falters on one of the keys of the second chord. Behind him, Murdoc grumbles and steps closer with a thud and he’s far too close far too quickly and 2-D completely fumbles the next chord.

  
“Screw your sodding head on, Faceache!” Murdoc takes his head and shakes it, rippling the pain of his worsening migraine. 2-D's vision becomes overexposed, the piano keys much too bright, and he closes his eyes for a moment. Warmth blooms behind his eye sockets as his senses rest. Murdoc shoves his head down and it thuds off the edge of the piano, hitting a few keys on impact. 2-D comes back up with his hand to his forehead and Murdoc laughs in his deep, sadistic way.

  
“Murdoc, what’d you do that for?” 2-D whines, his eyebrow throbbing. The impact reverberates in his skull and his brain feels like it’s being sliced in two.

  
Murdoc's tone drops to authoritarian and serious once again. “’Cause you aren't taking this serious! All you have to do, all you have to do is play the notes and sing the words and – look! I’ve written them all down nice and special for you, hmm? So just do what you’re good for, yeah?”

  
“My head's splitting, Murdoc, can I at least get my meds first?” 2-D mumbles, looking down.

  
“I’ll split your head in a minute, just play!”

  
So he plays. He can’t see the notes or the keys or the lyrics he's meant to be singing, but at some point it hurts just as much to open his mouth and sing as it does to be smacked in the back of the head so he decides to just play until Murdoc gives up on it this time or he simply dies from agony right there. Murdoc gets fed up before 2-D manages to die, however, and he finds himself quite dismayed. He’s sent back to his prison after being fully berated and swatted at as he scampers out to dodge the blow. Murdoc doesn’t walk back with him, leaving him alone in the elevator with the programmed killer. What unsettles 2-D about Cyborg, though, isn’t her intimidating skill set, inability to disobey Murdoc’s orders or the very real possibility of her killing 2-D if Murdoc says so. What really gets under 2-D’s skin, crawls within his flesh whenever he’s alone with Cyborg, is how she really does look like Noodle. Losing Noodle had left a grave heaviness within him, immovable even now. Having the robot made to restrict his freedom, amongst other duties, feels deeply perverse. However Murdoc had explained it – needing her DNA so the musical ability would be the same, this being the easiest way to build a guitar machine that worked so well, whatever – 2-D is certain that at least part of his reasoning had been to torment him.

  
Cyborg's footsteps to his left are methodical, her presence obvious despite 2-D's vision spotting and his head burning. He needs his pills. He also needs food. It was getting dark outside when he was brought to the studio and he hasn’t eaten in so long that nothing even comes up when he vomits anymore. Turning his head to where he can hear the footsteps, 2-D can just about discern Cyborg's form. He clears his dry throat, wincing at how the sound echoes in his head.

  
“Cyborg?” He begins, tentative, fingers twitching. Is he allowed to speak to her?

  
There’s a whirring sound and then a harsh, “Yes?”

  
“Oh! Um, I was just wondering... if it’s not too much trouble, you know, if you’re allowed, do you think I could have some food?” A pause. “’S just I haven’t eaten in... well, I’m just really hungry, so...”

  
“Yes,” She replies simply, letting 2-D into his room and locking him back in for a few minutes. When she actually returns with something in a bowl, he’s pleasantly surprised. 

  
“Oh. Thank you.” He takes the bowl, filled with some sort of instant rice. It’s good enough. At Cyborg’s silence, he repeats, “Thank you.”

  
“Yes.”

  
2-D smiles, a faint, feeble shape but a smile nonetheless. “Are you gonna have to tell Murdoc?”

  
“Yes.”

  
His stomach drops and he feels a phantom pain in his already-splitting head. He grabs his bottle of painkillers and takes a great many, shovelling rice in to force them down faster. “Will he be mad?” He asks, mouth still full.

  
Cyborg pauses, processing. “No.” She looks at 2-D almost as a human would. “you’re not allowed to die.”

  
2-D thinks on this, a great task with his head still thumping. “So what’s with the guns and... watching me and stuff?”

  
“I protect the island.”

  
“Yeah I know but, like, putting the gun to my back and stuff. You know, if you’re not allowed to kill me?”

  
“I have orders. I’m not allowed to kill you. You’re not allowed to die.”

  
“Huh.” He takes another forkful of rice. “Thank you, again.”

  
“Yes.” Cyborg nods, he can make out through his clearing vision, and leaves the room, locking the door behind her.

-

2-D wakes up to air filled with hot chemical fumes and he vomits on the floor. His stomach clenches at the now-unfamiliar sensation and his throat wrenches again, bringing up more and stinging his raw throat. Reaching a limp hand, he takes a tissue from the box by his bed and dabs at the fluids, tossing them in the general direction of the bucket across the room without lifting his head. He stands with bleary eyes and cracks his knees, tight from the cramped bed. He stretches, sits back down and opens his eyes. And shrieks.

  
“Good morning to you too, Faceache. Watch where you're throwing those tissues,” Murdoc chuckles from where he’s stood by the open doorframe.

  
“Eh, what’re you doing here- and up in the morning?” 2-D rubs his eyes and pops two painkillers in his mouth.

  
“Haven’t gone to sleep yet.” He shrugs. “Anyway, you need to catch up on the time you wasted yesterday, so chop-chop.” He claps his hands together and stands to the side of the door, gesturing for 2-D to follow him.

  
2-D sees the wide open corridor to the elevator. There are stairs too; he’s made a break for it before and knows the way by now. Cyborg Noodle is stood on the other side of the door and she’d always stopped him before because he’d always been afraid of her shooting him dead as soon as he hit open air. But now...

  
He gets up and ruffles his hair, trying to be inconspicuous while he thinks of a plan. He can start running at a faster pace than Cyborg can – he can prepare and he'll have adrenaline. When he hits the sea, he can just take off swimming since Cyborg can’t enter the water. He walks a few paces and Murdoc pushes him in front of the two of them, Cyborg's handgun pressed to him. This used to scare him.

  
Now, it makes him bold.

  
He takes a breath and sets off running. His shoes squeak on the floor as he flails his limbs as hard as he can. Somewhere behind him, Murdoc yells an order and Cyborg's feet make harsh scraping sounds as they come closer to him but he’s already up a flight of stairs, two flights, three. Light breaks through a window somewhere after the fifth flight and he’s getting tired but he sees a door and keeps running. He can hear that Cyborg is right behind him now and, from the heaving and cursing just behind that, Murdoc is running too. But he’s slower than Cyborg and if she can’t catch him, neither will he.  
2-D breaks out of the door and into open air. The plastic smell is even thicker out here, hot and humid and mixed with the smell of exposed garbage. Cyborg’s fingers grasp at his t-shirt and he reminds himself to keep going. He’s almost at the water's edge and then his feet are wet and then he’s knee deep and he surges forward to swim away and- he’s far deeper under the water than he'd intended to be. He kicks his legs but doesn’t come back to the surface. Water rushes in his ears and his head is pushed further and further down. He feels sharp fingernails piercing the back of his neck as a vice and it registers. You do run an awful lot slower in water. 

  
Murdoc has caught up to him at last and he can get in the water too, to boot. And now 2-D is going to die. He can’t lift his head from Murdoc's hand keeping it under the water and he tastes salt and rot in his mouth. His eyes burn from the toxicity of the water. 2-D is going to die. He stops fighting it, lets his body slacken against Murdoc’s grip and relaxes his mouth to leave it hanging open. No more imprisonment, no more shouting, no more pain. He feels the water stinging his throat and then there are no more thoughts.

  
Peace.

  
_“I’m not allowed to kill you. You’re not allowed to die.”_

  
There’s a weight cracking his ribs and he coughs and flails and cries out, opening his eyes to horrific pink and too much light. His lungs burn and his eyes feel strained and he fights against the pounding on his chest. 

  
“You _fucking_ idiot!” Someone hits him hard in the face and he knows exactly who it is.

  
“Murdoc.” He chokes.

  
“You-" There’s a shuffle and then a kick to his stomach that makes him feel sick. “You!” Another kick. “What is it with you?”

  
2-D mumbles something, muzzled by the pain and the stinging of his mouth and the bile in his throat.

  
“Huh? What’s that? ‘I’m sorry Murdoc, I can’t follow a basic sodding instruction? I’m sorry Murdoc, I’m ruining your band? I’m sorry Murdoc, I thought I’d take a swim, please drown me next time so you don’t have to put up with my shit?’” 

  
“Why didn’t you kill me?” 2-D croaks.

  
“Don’t be stupid.” Murdoc gestures for Cyborg to take hold of him, forcing him to walk back inside with them. “Do you see any other singers on this piece of junk? Until then, you’ll do what you’re good for and then you can die for all I care.”

  
2-D feels unsteady on his feet but Cyborg keeps pushing him onwards. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to sing with his lungs wrecked by saltwater and his throat raw. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stand Murdoc being his terrible self in the studio right now. He doesn’t know if he'll be able to slit his throat on the plastic fork in his room that he’d used to eat his rice the night before.

  
Murdoc walks a little further forward and 2-D whispers to Cyborg, “Can you not kill me instead?”

  
“I’m not allowed to kill you.”

  
“Can you bring me rice later, only this time with a big sodding butcher’s knife?”

  
“You’re not allowed to die.”

  
And he’s pushed into the studio.

-

Cyborg Noodle leaves for a few minutes whilst 2-D is learning the piano piece. In a strange turn of events that 2-D needs too badly to care about questioning it, Murdoc lets him off singing for that day since his throat is so raw. Though, he does give him fair warning that he won’t be lenient again since really it’s 2-D's own fault that he had to drown him. It’s the first time in ages that the time has gone somewhat smoothly between the two of them. It isn’t the same as it had been, probably never will be, but there are no attacks, insults or threats. The atmosphere is tense even so and 2-D takes to the piano purely to prevent any disagreements building, despite being devoid of that old passion for music. Out of the corner of his eye, he can even catch Murdoc nodding along to the music every so often, though he doesn’t dare to add any of his own thoughts to the music like he used to. Murdoc allows him to leave after a few playthroughs of some melodies he’s trying out and, though he hadn’t seemed to be displeased with 2-D's playing, something in his face makes him look unfulfilled. Perhaps it’s the fact that he hasn’t managed to swing at him for the entire session and the change of routine has irked him. The look drops off Murdoc's face as he sends 2-D out the door and directly into Cyborg Noodle, who had seemingly been waiting outside.

  
“You did alright, Faceache,” He drawls. “Don’t make me drown you before the next session and you might even do good.” He breathes a laugh and shuts the door, leaving 2-D to walk with Cyborg as usual.

  
“Cyborg?” He strikes up conversation again on their way down the elevator.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Do you think Murdoc really wants me dead after he can find another singer?”

  
“You’re not allowed to die,” She replies unhelpfully.

  
“Not right now, but what about after we get off this island? What then?”

  
“I have orders not to kill you at all. You’re not allowed to die ever.”

  
“Ever?” 2-D regards Cyborg Noodle with wide eyes, looking for some kind of sign of robot humour.

  
“Yes.”

  
“Did Murdoc tell you that, in those words, I’m not allowed to die ever?”

  
“Yes.”

  
2-D scoffs, looks at Cyborg, thinks, shakes his head, thinks, and looks at Cyborg. “Well, in that case I think I’m gonna need to eat a lot more often.”

  
“Yes.”

  
When Cyborg takes him back to his room and brings his rice this time, there’s no fork. She tells him again that he’s not allowed to die so she had to take away anything sharp. Turning back to his bed, 2-D realises that the plastic fork he'd left there before was gone. He’s less than pleased at having to eat rice with his hands but he thanks Cyborg and gets on with it. He does have a brief search of his room after she leaves but finds that there are no forks or knives or sign of anything he'd owned that resembled a point. It’s strange, though. He doesn’t feel robbed like he had when Murdoc hadn’t let him drown. Murdoc doesn't want him to die, even if he had the option. 2-D fancied that he doesn’t even want him to leave. 

  
Sod the knives and forks and pointy things. He doesn’t need them.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for physical abuse as usual, plus self harm.

2-D returns from a studio session about a week later with blood dripping from his nose and knows he’d been too hasty to feel at ease with Murdoc. The sessions before had gone well and 2-D had gained enough certainty to start building upon Murdoc’s ideas. This had gone well too; Murdoc would be quiet as he played, with an increasingly more familiar smile on his face that was so different to his usual menacing leer. He didn’t praise him out loud but he started sending 2-D back with the sheets of lyrics and music for him to look over and he always approved the small improvements that 2-D had enough courage to send back to him. He would return to his room, pick the two most minimal of the several ideas he had for the songs, write them down in the corners of the pages and settle down for his sixth nap of the day. 

  
He still vomited each morning and the air was still noxious but it was all a bit better than it had been in a very long time. Murdoc permitted him to have a DVD player in his room which took away a lot of the time that had been spent just sitting, staring at the wall and trying not to notice when the massive whale shadow took up his porthole. The weather was getting milder, the days less appealing for sunbathing, and on very rare occasions Murdoc would come down and watch the movies with him. He scoffed at the plots, poked fun at how unrealistic they were and fell asleep not even halfway through each one but he would come down anyway. He’d started bringing snacks – a welcome improvement from instant rice and couscous – and sometimes he even asked 2-D a question, mouth dropping shards of potato chips, about whatever “rubbish” they were watching before falling asleep soon after. 2-D didn't feel like he was just a voice for hire anymore. He felt like a person and a friend and he felt like he was 20 with his best friend Murdoc. Most of the time lately he’d been feeling that way. It felt like thinking Murdoc was so nice for how cool he was; it felt like elation again when he sang for him; it felt like looking over at him over the microphone and trying to put the right tone on his voice to tell him exactly what he felt. It was Murdoc spending time with him when he could be sleeping mid-afternoon or semi-conscious drunk; it was feeling himself fill with pride and joy when he saw Murdoc nod along to his singing and approve a few lyrics of his own; it was dotting the tiniest notes in the corners of Murdoc’s lyrics and trying to lay hints in his timid additions. It felt like he was 20 and falling again.

  
The faster you fall, the harder you land.

  
2-D returns from the studio with blood dropping hot streaks down his face and certainly feels the landing. He really thought he was being careful at first. It wasn’t much; a change of one of Murdoc's words to a softer synonym, ever so slightly changing a line to give it double meanings... He can admit that he got bold, though. Could he have helped it? He'd been doing so well, he’d been satisfying the bassist’s need for his creativity, and Murdoc was being that perfect mix of sarcastic yet warm, yet aloof, yet witty that had drawn 2-D to him in the first place. He remembered when Murdoc had been perfect like that before and 2-D had given him looks from over at the keyboard. Murdoc had taken those hints the only way he knew how to and 2-D hadn’t minded only having his feelings bared in the bedroom where his body was bared too. But now his Murdoc was back and it had been too long and Murdoc had been too horrible for too long and it had been too lonely and too horrible for too long and 2-D wanted more than a fuck. He wanted lingering touches that didn’t drop to his pants, words of adoration that could make it out of Murdoc’s lips outside the bedroom, a life that wasn’t put on hold when Murdoc had another option. 

  
Though, 2-D concludes through a banging head, throbbing nose and blood-filled mouth, it probably wasn’t the best idea to write all of his desperately feelings on top of Murdoc’s entirely unrelated lyrics and expect to be scooped into his arms. You live and learn.  
He'd thought he was being stupid and risky and in for a beating the first time he'd written any hint of his feelings over Murdoc's lyrics. But it had seemed that Murdoc didn’t pick up on the meaning of it – or just hadn’t bothered to think about it as long as it sounded good –and had even happened to like the addition better. 2-D started putting a few more of these low-key messages into the lyrics though he was always singing them as normal, not wanting to risk any vocal slip-ups. He could put his heart on the page, in tiny scribbles in corners, but his voice was Murdoc's property and he didn’t want to leave his heart within it. He couldn’t give his heart away to Murdoc as freely as he had years ago. So he kept his voice level and sane until one song. This one song. This one song that had his mind under its control since he’d read what Murdoc had written as the first draft. This one song that had made him realise it really had been too lonely and too horrible for too long and he really should do something about it.

  
He’d returned to his room with pages of song ideas and flicked through them as he lay back on his bed, humming a few notes of the sheet music of a few of them. He tested the sound of the one that had been on top of all the others, “On Melancholy Hill", Murdoc had titled it. It had that gorgeous, melodic sound that he’d been testing out lately and 2-D was enjoying fitting his voice into the atmosphere of it. He took a look over the lyrics and started to form the vocals in his head as he hummed along. The lyrics were, understandably, melancholy. It seemed to be about a girl, perhaps one that Murdoc had known, perhaps one he'd fictionalised to fit the music. 2-D couldn’t help but feel that she was real and the mere implication of Murdoc thinking enough about a girl from his past to write her into a song made 2-D's lips downturn. It was nothing more than putting “she” into a few lines but it sent tangible jealousy through him. Of course, Murdoc had lived through countless lovers, but he seemed to write about all of them except 2-D. Always “she"; a whole world of “her"; “does anybody know _her”_. They were always being pretty or sad or something and how come Murdoc even cared about what someone else was feeling? 2-D certainly never got that treatment. Murdoc sure made him feel enough things. He kept reading.

  
And came across that line. That line in this one song that was about to make him do something stupid. 

  
_“’Cause he is my medicine when he’s close to me.”_

  
2-D gasped aloud. His heart dropped and his face drained cold, then flushed hot. He read it again. _Always_ “she". A whole world of “her". Except it isn’t and that’s really what it says and who else could it be, who else could he be thinking of, who else could be here with him, right now, on melancholy hill, except...

  
Himself.

  
He read it again and took out his pen and put it back down. He couldn’t write anything over that. He didn’t want to ruin the evidence. What could he even say? He put the paper down. What could he even say? He picked it back up and read it again and took out his pen. He had to write something. He'd been too lonely and Murdoc had been too horrible and it had been too long. What could he even say? He clicked his pen and then clicked it closed again. How could he begin to communicate that he felt the same way, he always had, even when Murdoc was the very sickness that he was curing 2-D of? How could he even attempt to tell him that he was everything all at once and he’d been waiting for absolutely any sign that Murdoc felt the same? How could he write anything? He was Murdoc's medicine. He thought over that for a long time. Medicine for what? Melancholy, as he called it? He couldn’t fathom how he stopped Murdoc being melancholy; it seemed that all he did was make him mad at him and lash out at him and occasionally entertain him when he suffered at his hands. Though it hadn’t been like that recently, had it? Recently, it did seem like he’d been making Murdoc happy. Content, at least. Why else would he sit through his films, bringing snacks for the two of them too?

  
2-D made Murdoc better. He felt himself glow all over. He made Murdoc better. And he did, really. He’d been an awful lot nicer; as warm as he could be, being Murdoc. All because of him? 2-D supposed it had worked the other way, too. He’d found his passion for music again, regained his appetite, didn’t fantasise about escaping or dying in his sleep or killing himself anymore. Murdoc was his medicine, too.

  
He clicked his pen. In the space between the lines he wrote, barely legible in its tiny scrawl,

_“’Cause you are my medicine when you’re close to me.”_

-

He staggers onto his bed and thinks, with his hand cupped under his chin and filling with the blood keeping a steady stream from his nose, that it didn’t really go as well as he'd imagined. He lifts a heavy arm and swipes his bottle of painkillers, tipping out a few. His vision is like frosted glass, all bloated and blurry from the tears in his eyes but it looks like four or five or six white pills so he tips them into his throat and swallows them dry. His throat rasps and struggles, tight from holding back everything he might have said. 

  
His throat had been tight when he held the amended lyrics in his shaking hand, reverberating his gaze from Murdoc to the floor to Murdoc as he walked to the studio, straining for any hint that the lyrics had been meant for him. Murdoc had his hands in his pockets, looking at the corridor walls absently as they passed through, showing no emotion in particular. 2-D looked at the floor, as lumpy and pink as the rest of the island down here in the basement, and then over his shoulder where Cyborg was dutifully marching him with her gun against his back as ever. He glanced back at Murdoc and they locked eyes. A sudden surge came through his body and tingled on his skin. He fought back a shiver.

  
“Like what you see?” Murdoc chuckled.

  
2-D broke the eye contact to laugh half-heartedly, twisting his fingers. “You wish,” He teased. Murdoc just shook his head slowly, smug grin across his face, and kept walking. 2-D's hands shook a little less and his thoughts were a little more certain now.

  
When they reached the studio, he sat down on the stool and lay the sheets of music and lyrics on top of the piano with _that_ song on the bottom. Murdoc sank into his chair in the corner, took up his bass and raised his eyebrows at 2-D, waiting. He handed the sheets over and his chest clenched. They played and finished and modified and completed the songs one by one, 2-D's throat constricting harder and harder with every change made, approved and moved on with. He tried his best to keep his vocals steady, both to not reveal his nerves and to avoid angering Murdoc. The last thing he needed was a bad mood over them when Murdoc found the lyric he’d written in.

  
They finished the penultimate song with a flip of the sheet as Murdoc let it fly away, strewn over the desk. 2-D flinched.

  
“Really, putting this one at the bottom?” Murdoc tutted. “Didn’t even look at it, huh? That’s a real shame, you know, it’s got lots of... _personal meaning.”_ He finished his words with an exhaled laugh that put 2-D on edge and reassured him at the same time.

  
“Yeah, I thought so too.” 2-D kept his eyes on his fingers, ready on the keys.

  
Murdoc made an ambiguous hum and a, “Right. Well, let’s crack on. Need the music?”  
“Yeah, you can keep the lyrics though,” He replied, heart hammering. He needed Murdoc to read through the lyrics before he sang them and he couldn’t bear watching his reaction to it so he'd memorised the words purely for this moment. He took a breath and released it, rolled his shoulders and started to play.

  
It really was a beautiful melody. 2-D could almost lose himself in the rhythm but his heart was quivering and his ribs felt too tight for his body and his leg was twitching and he just knew Murdoc was leaning over his bass as he played along, checking the lyrics for any additions. The one addition. His voice failed him ever so slightly as he neared his line and the bass rhythm faltered. Murdoc had read it too. He kept singing even though Murdoc wasn’t playing anymore, he had to get it out, it had been too long, he needed to say it too desperately and he kept on singing even though there was no bass and he heard footsteps behind him and all he could think was _“hold me, please.”_ He kept on singing.

  
“’Cause you are my medicine when you’re-"

  
Two hands grasped his skull and his head slammed down on the piano. A shockwave shot through him, slicing his brain in halves and stinging behind his eyes and nose. Then everything turned black.

-

His vision came back after what felt like only a second. He was on the floor right outside the studio, his back to the closed door. A whirring sound came from above him and he looked up. The movement strained his eyes and they started pulsing, each throb an agonising sting. He brought a hand to his eyes but the pain disoriented him and knocked his nose, aggravating the hot swelling there and disturbing a blood clot. Fresh blood came pooling down his face and he groaned. Everything hurt, he realised now he’d had a chance to come back into consciousness. Above him, Cyborg was waiting to take him back to his room. He stood even though his knee felt bruised from having his dead weight thrown out the door. He walked even though his head was fuzzy and static and his eyebrow felt split open. He made his way back to where he could collapse onto the mattress and take painkillers even though by now his sight was useless and was crying without even knowing when it had started.

  
His throat, amongst almost everything else, still hurts hours later as he bangs his head back against the wall over and over and over, holding back all the things that he could scream into his cell. The painkillers hadn’t worked for anything except the headache and by now he doesn’t hate that. He throws his head back and feels the welcome ripple of tense pain within his skull. His eyes burn from the force each time but at least he isn’t crying. His face burns from where he’s scratched every trace of the dried blood from his skin. He hits his head on the wall once more and his body jolts and he stops, leaning forward so his chest rests on his knees. It’s quiet without the plastic thud against bone. His head is throbbing and his eyes sting and his face is irritated and everything he’d held back starts to build up within him. All his feelings come rushing back all at once, filling every corner of him, crawling under his skin and through the wrinkles in his brain. He grits his teeth, expecting the breakdown to hit him like a train and take him down into a screaming, writhing mess. His thoughts swirl and multiply and push against him and he tenses his body, awaiting the dreadful hit of a panic attack.

  
He gets more and more tense and it never comes. He grits his teeth and pushes back against the anger, desperation, sadness, love, pain, guilt inside him and it never comes. He rocks back and forth and wishes it over quickly and it never comes. It gets worse and tighter and more agonising by the second. It never comes. He’s bone-stiff and folded in on himself and wrestling but paralysed and it builds and builds.

  
Then it stops.

  
2-D exhales slowly. He sits up slowly, blinks slowly. And just like that, he feels nothing. He bashes his head against the wall and feels nothing. He gets up and stands facing the covered porthole and feels nothing. He opens the curtains and stares right out at the whale swimming closer and closer and feels nothing. Then he thinks about Murdoc and his chest constricts. He scratches at the deep cut on his eyebrow and feels nothing. He stands in the middle of his room, existing as nothing, until his legs grow weak and then keeps standing there. Even the water, so far away from the light at the surface, grows a shade darker. The whale passes the porthole and peers in and swims away 24 times. 2-D's mouth grows dry and his stomach churns, empty. When Cyborg enters with food for him, his legs are locked and he’s certain he’d fallen asleep stood up. He looks at her, both of them as blank and robotic as each other, and looks away.

  
“I have food,” She states.

  
“Yeah.”

  
A pause. “You must eat.”

  
“Why?”

  
“You’re not allowed to die.”

  
“I won’t die after a day. I’m not hungry.”

  
Cyborg waits a moment, whirring, then turns and leaves with the food. 2-D falls down into the mattress, legs giving in, and remains half on the bed and half on the floor until he falls asleep.

  
He wakes up fully in bed with the sheets covering him and his stomach writhing. He turns over to see a bowl of rice on the counter by his bed. He’s so used to regular meals now that last night’s fast is poignant. Yet he turns the other way and wills himself back to sleep.

  
Days pass. The food is no longer steaming hot when he next wakes up, then it’s dry, then congealed, then off-colour. When he wakes to a new, hot bowl of food he pushes it off the counter, smashing on the floor. He closes his eyes and rolls over, too empty to feel hungry anymore. Why is Murdoc trying to keep him alive? The lyric clearly wasn’t for him, so why does he care so much about the vocals to keep him alive? 

  
A sharpness strikes his throat at the thought of Murdoc and that dreadful song. 2-D starts feeling. His chest grows hot and painful and it’s so foreign now. He squirms and shakes his head and bangs it on the wall but it can’t distract him from all of it. Sitting up, lightheaded, he spots the shards of ceramic on the floor. His fingers twitch. Hesitant, he pauses. Then that melody returns to his head and he grabs a piece from the floor, gripped tight in his hands, puckering his fingers. He trembles, staring at the bare skin on his arms. He doesn’t want to do it. But his head is so full and he feels as everything at once and he digs into his skin and it all falls away.

  
It all falls away. Somewhere, at some time, stinging all over his forearms and on the back of his neck and the tops of his shoulder blades and anywhere that was bare and reachable, he stops. He’s raw, bleeding and burning up. But he feels nothing else. 

  
He’d made a mistake. Murdoc wasn’t his medicine. Murdoc was the sickness, the disease that kept coming back that he couldn’t leave and never left him either; terminal. He falls back into bed, blood-soaked skin sticking to the sheets, and falls into nothing.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for self harm aftermath.

Sometimes, when the fight is messy enough, 2-D can hear muffled, watery bangs and booms from above the surface. On occasion, stray bullets whizz past the porthole, leaving a thin string of bubbles like an aeroplane contrail. Today, he wakes up with a jolt as a massive chunk of debris slams into the water by the porthole, shaking the glass before it slows down to sink heavily out of view. The far-away sounds of machine rounds and missiles continue above him and he sighs. He stretches his back and winces. His t-shirt has stuck to the dried blood on his back and neck and rips against the cuts as he moves. Some smeared bedsheet is fastened to the scratches on his arms and he pulls it away, gasping at the sting. The skin around the zig-zagging wounds is still pink and inflamed. 2-D feels hot and itchy all over and, when he scratches at the irritating scabs on his neck, his fingernails come back covered in gritty dried blood and fresh new blood. 

  
He stares at his crusted nails, gazes his red-woven wrists and looks at the sore, angry pink around the cuts and feels obligated to gag; be disgusted or even feel guilty. Staring at the mess he'd made, inexplicably, nothing comes to mind. Vibrations shake the walls of the room and the whale makes itself visible and massive, presumably disturbed by the fallen debris. It stares at 2-D with lightless, terrible eyes and nothing comes to mind.

  
The shards of ceramic and slops of rice are still splattered on the floor. 2-D plucks a tissue from the counter to clean up but stops mid-movement, finding that he has no energy. He’s sore all over and sore throughout all of his insides and sore deep within his brain. He lets go of the tissue and watches it flutter down and make a blanket on top of the mess. He huffs a sigh and buries his face in his hands, thinking very few thoughts about very little. What time is it? Why can’t he get up? Will he be able to get up by the time Murdoc wants him in the studio?

  
Murdoc. Now come a great deal of thoughts about a great deal of things.

  
He’s too tired to process all the thoughts that come flooding out of the dam he’d built to preserve the drought of his mind. He squeezes a fist around one of his wounded arms and thinks about the pain instead. It stings, burns and then throbs after he lets go. His head aches, pounds and feels in need of water. His throat is dry, tight and sickly. He can easily get up, cross the room and get a glass of water from the little bathroom but he absolutely can’t do that easily. He can’t even step over to the DVD player to watch one of his old favourites. He can't do anything but lie in bed and hurt himself and wonder why Murdoc doesn’t care how he's doing and think too much and hurt himself.

  
Murdoc. He grasps his arms and winces.

  
The hiss from his mouth is harsher than it had been before. 2-D listens for the white noise of fighting that had come before but picks up only the dull hum of the water. So it’s over. He wonders if Murdoc had been wounded this time, or killed. A sharp pain twists in his heart as if he himself has been shot. Why is he grieving at the mere thought of it? Why can he picture it so vividly? Why does he care so much when Murdoc had tried to kill him before? 

  
_‘Cause you are my-_

  
The sound of nearing footsteps towards his door snaps him out of the thought and he's grateful. Then he realises that it’s Cyborg with new food and she's going to see the terrible mess he’s made of himself and she’s going to report back to Murdoc and Murdoc’s either going to be insufferably cruel or blow up at him for ruining the band. He could run to the bathroom but he’s exhausted to the bone. He could throw a hoodie on and act casual but he doesn’t have time. He could hide under the sheets but they’re all bloodstained and there’s no possible way he can do anything. When the door opens he’s still sat there with everything on show for Cyborg to see.

  
It isn’t Cyborg.

  
Its Murdoc.

  
A bowl falls from his hands and breaks with a crash, his eyes widen and his face drops. A dreadful cold shoots through 2-D's body and makes him tense up all over, his heart aches and twists and his blood shoots through him, white-hot. Murdoc looks at 2-D and 2-D looks at Murdoc and he hurts all over and he can’t stand the shame of it and it’s so obvious isn’t it and _how does he have the nerve to show up like he cares_ and _oh god he’s here_ and _he’s looking at me make it stop make it stop make it stop-_

  
And he screams. Knees tucked tight to his chest with his hands clasped to the back of his neck, nails scraping into the cuts there, he screams. Until his throat is raw and he runs out of breath and the tears stream into his mouth and then as long as he can after all of that, he screams. When he stops he can still hear it in his head. The room smells like blood and microwave rice and Murdoc's cigarettes, sounds like deathly silence and feels like Hell. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and breathes in ragged movements through clenched teeth. Murdoc hasn't made any noise since he dropped the bowl. Maybe he left. Maybe he only came to see how good of a mess he’d made of 2-D. Maybe he left.

  
2-D looks up and Murdoc is still there, stone stiff in the doorway with a hand still outstretched where the bowl had been, staring at him.

  
“Jesus Christ, what are you staring at?” 2-D yells. Murdoc jolts and actually seems to be frightened of him. “Say something!”

  
“Satan-" Murdoc stammers. “What the hell did you do?” He takes a small step closer, breaching the threshold of his room.

  
2-D looks down. “Nothing."

  
“’Nothing?’ What do you mean, ‘nothing?’” Murdoc crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps and crouches down opposite 2-D at the end of the bed. He stays there for a while as he quietly shuffles, opening his mouth every so often only to close it again. 2-D picks at the skin by his fingernails and focuses all of his attention on trying not to vomit. Neither speak for a long time.

  
“Murdoc?” 2-D mumbles, breaking the silence. Murdoc looks up as 2-D looks up too and their eyes meet. Murdoc’s eyes are pink and glassy. 2-D startles. Murdoc had been crying.

  
“Yeah?” He musters, not quite hiding the strain in his voice. Murdoc had been crying.

  
“I’m sorry,” 2-D adds. His expression is blank opposite Murdoc’s teary eyes and tear-streaked face and tear-strained voice and this is all the wrong way round and it’s Murdoc who’s crying and it’s 2-D who’s poker-faced with his voice calm. He feels nothing and yet Murdoc had been crying.

  
Murdoc had been crying.

  
It all comes apart in one motion. 2-D's body crumbles and he falls forwards with his head to his knees, sobbing. It’s the opposite to before; all the tension and aching and anger is replaced. It’s like the tension has snapped and all the force is leaving him at once. He feels like he’s deflating and he feels disappointing and he feels terrible and it hurts.

  
“I’m sorry,” He chokes in between it all. A sharp inhale comes from the man opposite him and 2-D's sobs alleviate for a moment in shock. Another hiss comes as Murdoc exhales again. 2-D looks up and Murdoc has his head leaned face-down into the mattress with his hands reaching up into the sheets to grasp them in his fists. His knuckles are busted and bloody and highlighted in white with the force of his grip. His body is trembling, shaking the bed a little. His fists close even tighter and 2-D flinches on instinct.

  
When Murdoc lifts his head from the mattress he covers it again with his hands, leaving only his mouth on show. He breathes in and out, slowly and laboriously.  
“Is it because-" Murdoc swallows. “Satan, it’s because of me, isn’t it?”

  
“I've been stupid.” 2-D quivers and hugs his arms to his chest. He had been stupid, truly. Why didn’t he just let himself be happy with the false belief that Murdoc would write about him? Why did he have to confront it and ruin it? Why did he have to be stupid?

  
“Yeah. Yeah, you have.” Even though 2-D knows it, it nearly splits him in half to hear Murdoc say it. “You won’t do it again. ...Will you?”

  
2-D's laugh comes out hollow. “Not unless I want to be beaten unconscious again.”

  
“I didn’t be- ...do that.” 2-D thinks he’s going mad before Murdoc adds, “Are we talking about the same thing? That it was stupid of you to ruin yourself over me being a wanker?”

  
He blinks. “Ah.”

  
“What were you talking about?” Murdoc asks.

  
2-D really feels stupid now. Wait. Did this mean that Murdoc didn’t think the stunt he'd pulled with the lyrics was stupid or just that he thought his outburst was stupider? He grimaces. “The stupid thing... with the lyrics.”

  
Murdoc turns his head to look away and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them and meets 2-D's gaze again. “I didn’t think it was stupid." He breaks eye contact again.

  
2-D is shaking so hard that he thinks he might faze through the floor. “Well, why did you...”

  
“Because I’m a prick.” Murdoc sighs. He rubs a hand on his brow and continues, still not making eye contact. “I panicked, I guess, Satan, I don’t know. I panicked.”

  
“Why?”

  
“’Cause I wasn’t nice last time.” _Last time._ And how that takes 2-D back to Murdoc being drunk and 2-D being desperate and being kicked out of bed as soon as it was done with a wordless glare. “And I wasn’t nice after that ended. Or before it. Because I’m a prick.”

  
“You’ve been nice.” 2-D watches Murdoc scoff at the accusation. “You have, though. The movies and the jokes and things. Nice.”

  
“Wow, what an angel,” Murdoc drawls. He shrugs and his seriousness returns. “I’ve been trying. To let myself be nice. It’s not that I don’t want to – mind you. It’s just...” It was hard for him to trust anyone to that level, 2-D already knew without having to hear it. “I have been trying but then I did that fucking song. I didn’t even think you’d notice it, I guess, just a place to put it out there; test it without, you know, having to see how you'd respond. But, regrettably, you’re smarter than that.”

  
“Did you mean it?” 2-D's heart is in his throat and he’s pretty sure he understands what’s happening but he needs to hear it.

  
“Of course I meant it. I do mean it, still. I wouldn’t have a band without you.”

  
2-D deflates. “Just for the band?” His voice comes out smaller and whinier than he'd wanted.

  
Murdoc puts his head in his hands and groans. “No, of course not. Of course not. I just don’t know how to- I don’t know. But I do mean it.”

  
“So do I.” And 2-D feels it, just the presence of Murdoc, seeing him, talking to him, and feels it complete him.

  
“How can you? Look at you.” Murdoc does look and averts his eyes immediately with a shudder. “It’s because of me.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“Satan-"

  
“-But not like that,” 2-D interjects. “I thought you hated me and that you didn’t care because no one checked up on me except Cyborg and that was just ‘cause she has to and it just felt like I'd done something stupid. And it was because you weren’t here, not because you had been.”

  
Murdoc's brow is furrowed. “I did check on you. Since straight after it happened, I wanted to take you your things. You were just always asleep. I assumed you knew it was me so I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought _you_ hated _me_.”

  
“Really?”

  
Murdoc hums an affirmative. “Guess we're both stupid, aren’t we?”

  
2-D smiles even though he feels shaken up inside. He looks at Murdoc. “What are we gonna do now?”

  
He frowns. “What can we do? I don’t wanna be how I was before.”

  
“Then don’t be.”

  
“I’m trying, I was trying. Then I busted your face on the piano for having the nerve to make the exact same move that I did.”

  
“Well, what are you gonna do?”

  
Murdoc shrugs. “Try harder. Hit Cyborg instead.” He flexes his hand, rippling the scabs on his knuckles.

  
“You’ll break your hand and then you won’t be able to play anymore.”

  
“I don’t mind.”

  
“What about the band?”

  
“Sod the band.” Murdoc scoffs. “Sod the band, I don’t care about that as much as...” He sniffs. “Nowhere near as much as this. You.”

  
2-D's heart has detached from his body and left him flooding with blood and overheating. His face is pink and he feels thirteen years old. “What do you want me to do while you do that?”

  
Murdoc shakes his head. “Nothing. Anything. Do what you want, just don’t wait for me. I’m not good at...” He shakes his head again. “Don't wait for me. It might take a while and I might not even get better. I’m not good at this.”

  
“I’ll wait.”

  
“Don’t.” He frowns, then smiles weakly. “Don’t be a wanker, I’ll feel terrible.”

  
“I will.”

  
“Wanker.”

-

Murdoc tries. 2-D pretends not to know that he’s trying because apparently they’re acting like nothing has happened yet - how it had been before 2-D changed the lyrics. They record that song eventually and 2-D pretends not to be flustered when he sings his lyric because apparently they’re acting like Murdoc smiles to himself like that all the time. They watch films and play video games and have conversations and 2-D pretends not to notice how Murdoc really is being perfectly nice. They wait for some spectacular event of realisation that everything is okay. Murdoc pretends that he doesn’t hold his fists tight to his sides when he gets angry. 2-D pretends not to flinch when something goes wrong. They wait for a whole day where Murdoc doesn’t grit his teeth to stop himself. When that happens, they wait for a whole week where 2-D doesn’t gasp under his breath when he messes up a part of a song. When that happens, they wait for each other to say something to prove that they’re both still working for the same thing. This doesn’t happen.

  
Sometimes it’s late evening when Murdoc comes down to 2-D's room for company; he knows because Murdoc finally gave him a little blue plastic clock. His door isn't locked anymore but he doesn’t really leave anyway, only to go to the kitchen. Murdoc is often different at night-time; usually falling off a high on something. Sometimes he tops up and gets high again. Sometimes he comes down to 2-D's room. They put a movie on and Murdoc still doesn’t watch it and still falls asleep most times. He’s the same nice Murdoc that he always had been when he’d wanted to be and yet, at the same time, it’s so different. He’s got the same fang-toothed smirk and dry humour and sarcastic wit but now with something else too. Maybe it hadn’t been there before, maybe 2-D was too on guard to notice it, but now the Murdoc of the night-time has something glowing behind his eyes that isn’t the blue reflection of the TV light. The Murdoc of the night-time, with his smug grin and bright eyes and low, quiet voice, looks so inexplicably in love. He looks like he’s waiting for 2-D to tell him he’s ready to forgive him. 2-D wonders for how much longer he'll be waiting before Murdoc tells him he’s ready. Neither of them tell the other anything. Both of them keep waiting for that spectacular event.

  
Then comes the final attack on Plastic Beach. There’s so much noise above him, so much crashing by the porthole, so much happening. The whale keeps bashing against his room, keeps shaking the walls, keeps 2-D absolutely terrified. In a space of time so short that he barely has chance to breathe in between it all, Russel emerges, then Noodle and _oh, Noodle, Noodle-_

  
Then the whale breaks through, jaws open and terrible, and everything leaves him.

  
He washes up on a far away beach and thinks the first three real thoughts he’s had in since Plastic Beach.

  
_Real sand is so fucking weird. Noodle’s gotten so big._

_I'll keep waiting._


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update I've been away with no wifi :/ Hopefully you'll appreciate this next chapter.

He waits the entire year he spends in Guadalupe where he washed up on the beach. He frequents every rave he can find until he’s tipsy, drunk, smashed, out of his mind and then blackout so he won’t remember. He meets a woman who sells jewellery at the market; dark haired and bubbly who doesn’t speak a word of English and is absolutely not Murdoc. She comes to the fiesta every Friday evening and 2-D dances with her for the whole night until the sun rises as he’s wobbly and vomiting in the bathroom. She helps him ask for painkillers for his migraines at the pharmacy after a long, arduous explanation in crude Spanish. She teaches him how to weave the friendship bracelets she sells, hands over his own to guide his fingers between the threads. He spends a year with her and can almost have a conversation with her by the end of it, his heart fluttering when she speaks a word that he understands.

  
She invites him to dinner and a night back at her place and he’s rocketed back to Kong Studios, to the room filled with smoke and low sounds, to the fanged smirk of invitation and the deathly glare of dismissal. He thinks about Murdoc.

  
_I’ll keep waiting._

  
He tells her he has someone else but he’d like to stay friends. She shows up to the next fiesta with an iron skillet swinging from hand to hand and he decides it’s time to go.

  
The plane journey is long and turbulent and he keeps waking from sleep with a jolt as the plane drops and shudders through thick clouds. Customs goes slowly and tediously as usual, someone else almost makes off with his bag and he has to chase them down, calling out with ham-fisted Spanish. The friendship bracelet he’s still been wearing on his wrist is seized at the x-ray, searched through and returned to him ripped and undone. He puts it in the bin on his walk through the airport to the exit gates.

  
Through the sea of name cards held up and tour companies advertising, he glances around at nothing in particular and sees it. An ordinary-looking man in an ordinary-looking outfit holding a card in an ordinary way. On it, extraordinarily, is scribbled the word “Wanker". He stops, looks around, gets bumped into and sworn at, and follows the man.

  
He tries to wait for the entire time the band is back together recording the new album. He’s delivered back to the band by the man with the card and he cries and cries. Noodle runs up to him with her arms outstretched and tears in her beautiful eyes. 2-D mirrors her and they crash together, laughing and sobbing. He makes a move to pick her up and swing her around like he used to but now he feels her embrace tighten as he himself is lifted from the floor and twirled in Noodle’s arms. She puts him back down and lets him go, wiping her eyes, but Russel re-joins them with a bone-crushing hug that envelopes both of them, screaming in laughter and hysterical at the reunion. They break apart, shaking and laughing and heaving, and then all eyes rest on Murdoc. 2-D's hammering heart stops. He’s stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with his sweater with his face tight in strained nonchalance.

  
He notices the looks from the rest of the band and crosses his arms, scowling. “Well, I’m not going to hug him. It’s his own sodding fault he got eaten.” 

  
He gets back into the car and nods at Russel to get in the driver's side and take them all home. Russel sighs, shakes his head in a wordless apology to 2-D and obliges Murdoc's direction. Noodle lays a hand on 2-D's shoulder and smiles weakly.

  
“Me and Russel love you at least, 2-D.”

  
She, too, walks back to the car and gets in. 2-D stays still, watches Murdoc through the window - already seeming to be grumbling to Russel about something - and puts a hand to his chest as it caves in on his heart. He gets in the car.

  
_I want to keep waiting._

  
2-D convinces himself that Murdoc had just been putting up a front so that the band wouldn’t judge him. They wouldn’t, but Murdoc has always liked his mystery and secrecy and won’t have told them anything about what had happened on Plastic Beach. 2-D hadn't expected him to. He also hadn't expected to feel disappointed that Murdoc hadn't said anything; perhaps asked them to help him; correct him when he was aggressive; talk to him about his feelings. 2-D hadn't expected him to, but he had expected him to be trying as hard as he had been. 2-D tells himself that Murdoc just needs more time and has been slipping without having him there to solidify his work into reality. It doesn’t seem like it when he insults him, humourless and cruel, more than he ever did towards the end of Plastic Beach – almost as much as he used to in the worst days. 2-D doesn’t expect him to be perfect but he expects him to do better; he'd said he would even if it took a while and that’s why 2-D didn’t have to wait for him. 2-D doesn’t expect him to be perfect but he needs him to be better. 

  
2-D asks himself if Murdoc is even trying. He expects him to but all he gets is recording sessions with at least one other band member there. It’s lovely to talk to them both again and make up on all the lost time – hearing Russel’s stories and reliving how Noodle grew up – but he gets no time alone with Murdoc. Sometimes 2-D looks over at him, plucking the bass strings behind the glass as he sings, but Murdoc remains straight-faced looking down at the dials, adjusting the pickups. He scours the lyrics for any hint of messages meant for him and wracking his brain for hidden meanings, even asks the featuring artists what the message seems to be for them. None of them say anything he wants to hear and he can’t just ask them if they think it’s romantic or about him so he, feigning interest, just hums and calls it profound. He tries to find a way to get the two of them alone together just to talk about what’s going on, if anything is going on anymore, but Murdoc always gets himself out of it. He listens for the tell-tale bumps against walls and clinks of empty glass bottles falling on carpet, signalling Murdoc’s getting out of bed and 2-D waits to hear the door creak open and shut as Murdoc staggers to the kitchen for breakfast at 3pm. 2-D slinks out of his room and follows him to where he’s hunched over the coffee machine, waiting for it to brew. 2-D missteps on a floorboard and rips a terrible squeal from the creak in the wood. Murdoc freezes momentarily but makes no other sign that he’s heard him. Instead, he reaches over to the fruit bowl, back still turned, grabs an orange and hurries past 2-D, keeping his eyes averted as if he isn’t even there. 2-D sits down to wait for Murdoc to come back. The coffee machine rumbles and turns off, finished. Murdoc doesn’t come back for his coffee.

  
The days go by with silence; weeks of being looked straight past and ignored. By the time months have passed, 2-D isn’t even sure if Murdoc is real anymore. He sees Noodle and Russel talk to him and he talks back but never looks over at 2-D when he adds something to the conversation. Though he’d been waiting for a year to see if his wait had been worth it and months on Plastic Beach watching Murdoc get better and better and still not confirm anything, 2-D starts to distance himself from Murdoc in return. He starts accepting Noodle’s pestering for him to go with her to the sushi bar and frozen yoghurt place and Russel's invitation to go hunting, though he does get a little queasy with every shot and tries to hold his breath the whole drive back with the smell of death oozing out behind him.

  
Their trip to the nightclub they visit after finishing “Strobelite" is the first group activity the band has done that Murdoc attends, though he remains firmly sat on the couch by the dancefloor for the majority of the night with Russel asleep next to him. Noodle gets up on the dancefloor almost immediately, leaving 2-D and Murdoc practically alone for a few seconds. 2-D watches Noodle get into the rhythm and wants so badly to join her but in that moment Murdoc looks at him, _looks at him,_ for the first time in ages and it looks like he wants to say something at long last. 2-D keeps his eyes on Noodle, happy and dancing, watching Murdoc fidget out of the corner of his eye. He wants to know what Murdoc has to say and he wants to hear how he’s improved and he wants to know that he’s ready to try with him now but he’d presumed Noodle to be dead the entire time he was on Plastic Beach, grieved for her and finally got back to her again.

  
He steps onto the dancefloor and stays there the whole night like he did in Guadalupe. At some point he looks above the crowd and spots Murdoc at the bar with a man he’s never seen before. His heart drops and he feels his body droop, his arms falling back down to his sides. Then Noodle takes his hands and twirls the two of them around, grinning. 2-D laughs and returns to the music, swaying and spinning and whooping. He doesn’t look back at Murdoc.

  
_I’m sick of waiting._

  
Murdoc manages to get himself thrown in jail and 2-D can’t quite muster up all the sadness and disappointment that he knows he would have felt before. In fact, he feels almost relieved that now he won’t get word from Murdoc because he can’t, not because he’s being ignored. When Ace arrives with sunglasses over his eyes and a hat obscuring his face, 2-D panics at the thought that he’s going to be just another caged, aggressive guy – especially an old friend of Murdoc's. He mostly stays away from the new bassist for the first few days, moving cautiously around him and surveying him, chewing toast and texting, from the kitchen counter while 2-D brews his tea. About a week in, 2-D is stirring the teabag into his mug and trying to make himself invisible in the cranny between the fridge and the wall when he hears a voice and jumps out of his skin.

  
“Hey, Stu, come look at this,” Ace laughs, facing the phone screen at 2-D.

  
“Stu?” He startles. No one ever calls him that.

  
“Yeah, that alright?” Ace asks. When 2-D nods, concealing a smile, he wiggles the screen in front of his face. “Look at this.”

  
He does, and he bursts into a giggle before he can stop himself. It’s an animated gif of poorly-drawn zombie versions of the four of them playing their respective instruments. 

  
“That’s wicked!” 2-D exclaims. “I love zombies.”

  
“You dig it? Sweet. I made it.”

  
“Really?”

  
“Yeah,” Ace removes his sunglasses and sets them on the table, showing his pink eyes. 2-D blushes but isn’t sure why. “So, you like zombies? Zombie flicks?”

  
“Yeah, they’re my favourite.”

  
Ace nods. “Let’s watch one tonight, all of us together.”

  
So they do. They share a bowl of popcorn and a few packs of beer in front of one of the tackiest, goriest zombie films 2-D has seen in a while – and, God, how weird it still is to see Noodle cracking open and drinking a beer – and it feels... nice. He goes to yoga with Noodle and Russel drives him to the therapy sessions that he knows he's needed for a while and watches old, crappy horrors with Ace and it feels nice. It happens slowly but, at some point, he finds himself holding hands with Ace on the couch and Ace’s head on his shoulder as the four of them have a movie night. It feels nice.

  
He starts writing songs again – full songs, straight from himself with no filter and no one with an explosive temper which balances on whether they are impressive or disappointing. He writes songs that are no good and just fine and okay and it feels nice to be allowed to write crap. He's free.

  
Somewhere along the way, it seems, he starts to write a few sets of lyrics that turn out to be really profound and he’s pleased. Not relieved for his life or glad he got off easy, just pleased. They record a few, in fact, and the band agrees that they should really start making that new album and that – especially fully produced – 2-D's songs are really something. Ace ruffles his hair affectionately, Russel pats him on the back harder than he intends to and tells him he’s done well and Noodle remarks that she's glad to see him happy. His therapist smiles when she reads all his lyrics and thoughts written down in his notebook and tells him she's pleased for him, but that he should be careful not to get carried away. 

  
He doesn’t even really wonder what she means until the dreams start.

  
He wishes everyone goodnight and gives Ace a kiss before they part for their separate rooms – 2-D hadn’t wanted to rush anything – and eventually winds down to bed. He thinks about how well he was doing writing with his own ideas, mostly unaided too, as he brushes his teeth. Kicking his trousers off, he remembers how well therapy had gone today, with him leaving feeling lighter than ever before. He wonders what Russel will make for dinner tomorrow, clambering into the sheets and turning off the light. It all feels nice.

  
He wakes up snotty and crying and doesn’t know why. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to grasp at the memory of the dream as it falls away but can’t remember anything except the ache in his chest that persists for the entire day. He barely picks at the curry Russel makes for dinner and goes back to bed without spending the evening with Ace as usual. Noodle knocks on his door, Ace audibly muttering in a worried tone next to her, but 2-D doesn’t respond so they wish him well and leave him be. He wants to write about what he’s feeling except he doesn’t know what it is. All he can do is sleep.

  
Over time, the dreams slowly become clearer and more memorable and 2-D comes to wish they hadn’t. Some are full of death, most are painfully depressing and all feature Murdoc. Murdoc beating him for replacing him so entirely, Murdoc leaving from his life forever as punishment for moving on and, worst of all, Murdoc stood in front of him just crying because 2-D hadn’t waited for him. The dreams chew through his heart and hit his spinal chord, permanently fusing to his brain and then he can’t stop thinking about Murdoc. He sobs in front of his therapist, notebook full of scribbles and nonsense, and she tells him to do what will make him feel better, not necessarily what will work out for everyone. He breaks things off with Ace, who is agonisingly kind about everything, and they still watch movies together – from opposite ends of the sofa. He attends meditation with Noodle and goes to the gym with Russel and cries in front of a room full of people both times whilst talking about it all. Then he writes a song. Then another, and another, and another until the album is recorded and re-recorded in parts where 2-D had started to break down. He’s fairly certain they accidentally kept the uncropped voice recording of “Fire Flies" where he sniffs away his watery nose at the end but he isn’t completely sure and he doesn’t want to hassle the company.

  
With the album all done with, Ace, apparently a “citizen of the world", leaves to do a road trip with his four other friends. The two of them have one final hug as he leaves and Ace assures him that there are no hard feelings and even urges him to text him if “that son of a bitch ever breaks your heart again”, regardless of how good of friends they were.

  
It's a week before Murdoc returns and he’s sat in his therapist's room, chewing his lip.

  
“I don’t know what I should do,” 2-D says.

  
“You should do what’s best for you,” His therapist replies.

  
“I don’t know if I can handle seeing him after all the,” he gestures to the notebook on the table, “emotions I’ve already had without him even being here.”

  
“You don’t have to see him when he comes back.”

  
“I know but he’s been gone for so long and I did say I would wait." He pauses, expecting a reply but she waits for him to finish his thought. “But... he also told me not to wait because he knew it would be a while and he knew it would be hard to wait for so long. He won’t be angry with me for doing what he told me to do because he knew it would be unreasonable to wait so long for one person. If he's disappointed, he’s only disappointed himself because he shouldn’t have expected me to wait when he’s given me nothing to keep me waiting.”

  
She smiles. “Do you know what you want to do now?”

  
2-D nods. “I’m going to go to yoga on my own before he comes back, I’ll go for a walk to the park and I’ll feed the ducks.” He thinks. “I’ll get dumplings for lunch and buy some to take back for Noodle. I’ll go to the cinema and watch that new horror, I’ll text Noodle and Russel the whole day so they know I’m not ignoring them. I’ll go to a nightclub and I'll flirt and I _won’t_ bring anyone home and I won’t go to anyone else’s place either and I’ll come back late or I’ll text Noodle to come to the clubs with me and we can go back together and she'll keep me out of Murdoc’s way all night so I won’t have to see him until the morning. And he probably won’t be awake then anyway.”

  
“I’m glad you can plan to keep yourself happy and busy,” She tells him as he stands to leave at the end of the session. “Now try and do it.”

  
He does. He spends the whole day away from the house and Noodle does come to the club with him. They dance and 2-D cries, feeling like a horrible person, and then he's up dancing again. They make it home in the early hours of the morning, singing as they wobble out of the taxi and being less sneaky coming back than they’d planned for, and deliver each other to their rooms. 2-D drops face-first into his mattress, vomits over the side of the bed onto the floor and promptly falls unconscious. He has no dreams that night.

  
When he wakes up the sun is streaming through a gap in his curtains and he grimaces against it, dropping his face to the mattress to block it out. He spots the splatter of congealed vomit on the floor, sighs, and picks tissues from the bedside table to scoop it all up. He piles the used tissues in one hand and, when the floorboards are mostly clean, stands up to put them in the bin.

  
“Reminds me of something, don’t you think?” Murdoc is stood in his doorway. He’d been there the whole time, watching him, just like on Plastic Beach. 2-D freezes. “Here,” Murdoc reaches out to take the tissues. 2-D flinches. “Sorry.” He drops his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

  
2-D fiddles with his fingers and crinkles the paper before finally throwing it to the bin. Murdoc shifts on his feet and rubs his hands on the side of his jeans.

  
“Anyway,” Murdoc starts again, “it’s been a while.”

  
“Yeah,” 2-D manages to mutter.

  
“I... you know,” he sniffs, “you know.”

  
“No I don’t,” 2-D replies, almost a whine. “I never know.” Murdoc is quiet. “What happened the last time we were all together and you acted like I didn’t exist? What happened when I finally came back after a year and you didn’t even care? I was thinking about you the whole way back...” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  
“I...” he elongates the sound, “don’t know.”

  
“You need to know because I have a right to know. It's been years, Murdoc, you need to know.”

  
“I don’t know!” He corrects his volume back to room level. “I don’t know why I panicked and didn’t know what to do with everything I wrote down and practised to myself while you were gone. I don’t know why I felt ashamed when I saw you for the first time since Plastic Beach and I didn’t want you to feel like you had to pretend to be happy to see me. I don’t know why I don’t know what to say to you when it’s all I think about. But I know it’s been years and I have been trying and I think I can be good enough if you can give me the chance. Are you... did you wait for me?” His face is trained into an ordinary expression but his eyes are glimmering in hope.

  
“I did,” 2-D watches Murdoc’s face split into a smile, “for the first year even when I could have gotten someone, then the second when you looked straight through me and I felt so lonely. Then, sometime after the fifth year, Ace was here and some time after that I stopped waiting. What did I have to wait for? All you'd given me for years was, well, you _hadn’t_ given me anything. I did wait for you, but I can’t run idle with nothing to keep it going.”

  
“So.” Murdoc smacks his lips together, looking around the room at every point that wasn’t 2-D. “You and Ace?”

  
“For a little while. He was nice."

  
“Yeah. Nicer than...”

  
“How you’ve been,” 2-D finishes.

  
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I am.”

  
“Thanks, but that can’t undo everything."

  
“I know.” Murdoc steps back and puts his hand on the door. “I’m sorry.” He starts to close it and then, right before shutting it, “I missed you.”

  
2-D puts his the last album's music on through his earphones and cries all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always loved, appreciated and thought about for years!


	5. 5

It’s not that he stops talking to Murdoc, in fact, he talks to him as much as ever when they’re the studio trying to get into the zone for creating music. They talk about the people in Guadalupe, the food in prison, the ideas for the new album and how they would make changes from the last album which, as 2-D learns, Murdoc hasn’t even heard yet. He tries not to feel hurt – hadn’t he himself told Murdoc that there was nothing to wait for anymore? And yet, he'd written it about Murdoc, all of it. The freedom he’d felt; the guilt for leaving the memory of him; the sadness; the resignation; the all-consuming, never-ending love – all in that album. It wasn’t just about Murdoc. It was for him. The album had been an outlet, a therapy and a diary but most of all it had been a message; a love letter in rhythm and sounds.

  
Now, 2-D has ruined it all by saying those stupid things in anger. No, an apology doesn’t change everything. But years of trying – re-learning how to react, how to speak, entirely to behave, all whilst being the same Murdoc with the same wit, cynicism and crass ways – changes everything for 2-D. The worst is he doesn't know what to say. He'd said it all in the album and Murdoc doesn't want to listen to that. He doesn't want to be messed around just like 2-D doesn't and he really can't be blamed for that. There is nothing to say that hasn’t already been recorded, synthesized and burned onto a track with a funky beat and rendered useless; just another pop song.

  
It’s not that he stops talking to Murdoc. It’s just that there’s nothing to say. Between old jokes, crude puns and immature banter, there isn’t really much room to talk about anything. Whenever the conversation grows quiet and Murdoc's subconscious bass playing can be heard even when unplugged from the amp, 2-D thinks he'll say something. Just as the low thrum of the bass dissolves into silence and he starts to get his words in order, Murdoc says something else. It’s dirty and stupid and they laugh but 2-D wonders if Murdoc even wants to know at all anymore. 2-D had stopped waiting so why shouldn’t Murdoc? What had 2-D given in return to keep Murdoc waiting?

  
The studio quietens once more. Murdoc strums a chord absently, pen in his hand and near-empty sheet music on the desk. 2-D takes a sip of his tea and puts it back down near the tape reels. The clink of ceramic against wood is harsh as the bass tone fizzles out. Murdoc frowns at the noise as he leans over to scribble on the bars. The horrible scratching of Murdoc's drying biro against the paper is too much and 2-D speaks.

  
“How come you haven’t listened to the album yet?” He asks. Murdoc rolls his eyes and smirks, still joking around. “It’s your own band, you know, the one you made?”

  
“I wasn’t in it so why would I care?” He leans back in his chair, pretending to be all high and mighty.

  
“Sounds the same anyway,” 2-D joins in on the humour – at least they’re talking about it, “your bass is nothing special.”

  
“Actually I think my bass is very particular and unique. Who ever heard of ‘repeating the same six notes in a simple order’? I invented that.”

  
“Yeah, yeah, genius.” 2-D cracks the knuckles of his fingers one by one as they become quiet again. “But, really, how come?”

  
“Uh.” Murdoc shrugs. “I was busy?” He says, sounding more like a limp question than a reason.

  
“Busy, sod off, busy with what?” 2-D reaches across to the mixers and fiddles with the switches even though there was no one behind the glass on the recording side.

  
“Busy with – careful, don’t mess with those – writing songs and stuff.”

  
“Oh, well, show me then.”

  
“No.” Murdoc holds his bass closer to his chest and raises his knees to a more tense position. “It’s not ready. I’ll, you know, I’ll put in on the album or something when it’s ready.”

  
“How’s it not ready? Bet it’s shit.”

  
Murdoc laughs with his mouth wide, fake appalled, and sticks his middle finger up. “Doesn’t matter if it is because you’re singing it anyway, mate.”

  
“So you can have me sing your shit but you can’t hear our album – critically acclaimed, by the way – because...?” Murdoc rolls his eyes but 2-D is being serious. He asks, more forcefully, “What, is it 'cause it's me?”

  
“Yeah.” Murdoc shrugs. “Yeah, and I can’t bear listening to it.”

  
A thousand thoughts flick through 2-D's head like words in a flipbook. _Why not? I’ve fucked it. I've fucked it. How do I tell him? How can I tell him? Does he want me to tell him? Why, what, how, when?_

  
What 2-D says, however, with his head tipped back against the top of the seat in exasperation, is; “Listen to the sodding album, you wanker.”

  
Murdoc's eyebrows raise and his fingers come away from the strings. 2-D keeps looking at him from the upturned angle of his head tipped back. Murdoc exhales, smacks his lips together and returns to the bass.

  
He plays the E-string open and simply says, “Alright.”

  
Apparently, sometimes it’s as easy as just asking him.

-

2-D's therapist has, he’s certain, more knowledge on this entire situation than 2-D can even remember telling her. That's why it exhausts him so much that she can’t just tell him what to think and say and do. He'd arrived early today, needing to occupy himself instead of straining his hearing for any sounds of Murdoc's footsteps, and got one of those dreadful bitter teas from the drinks machine. He's sitting on the blur chair opposite his therapist, taking the lid off his now-empty cup and putting it back on repetitively. She’s smiling at him in the way only a therapist can with subtle plasticity and falsity that somehow reads as kind. His notebook lies open on the table, empty since the last time; not even a scribbled-out line of lyrics, a messy bar of music, a word.

  
“I dunno what I’ve been feeling,” 2-D says. “It’s like I’m just waiting all over again and it feels empty most of the time.”

  
“Why does it feel empty?” She asks, slowly picking up her pen.

  
“I dunno. It’s just like I’m trying to make myself wait without knowing if I should be. Again. I do see Murdoc but...” She looks at him, silent, even after he trails off. He adds, “it’s not what I want.”

  
“What do you want?”

  
“You know what I want,” 2-D whines. She smiles and raises her eyebrows, urging him to continue. “Yeah, I know... I want, I dunno, I want him to listen to the album. I want him to get that it’s from me, to him and I want him to get what I’m saying because there’s no way I can say all that all over again. It was hard to write it the way I meant it the first time.”

  
“What do you want him to do after that?”

  
2-D shrugs and sighs, popping the lid off and on again. “Come and talk to me I guess? And say something nice. Not too nice, not weird Murdoc, but not cruel Murdoc like a while ago and not that stupid aloof Murdoc that he was when I came back. I don’t know, I just want the original Murdoc, like when I was 19.”

  
“But you’re not 19 anymore,” She tells him. “You aren't the same person you were and neither is he.”

  
“Meaning what?”

  
“He may not respond the way you want him to and that’s okay. You can live without him, you have managed to be happy without him before. People change and you’re allowed to change just as he can.”

  
“So you’re saying I don’t need him? No, you've heard about everything in my life and you've read everything I've written in that book, of course I need him.” He twists his hands in front of his chest. “Of course I do.”

  
“You don’t have to. Maybe you need to take more time for yourself with your friends.”

  
“I already did that for a year and I already spent time with Russel and Noodle while Murdoc was gone and I still ended up thinking about him. It’s everything; it’s the band and more than half of my life and everything. I can’t just stop thinking about him like that.”

  
“I know that, you wrote it in your song.” She nods. “All I’m saying is, if he doesn’t respond well or even at all, you can let the memories stay memories. It doesn’t mean that he’s never meant anything to you, it just means that he was important to you in a way that he doesn’t have to be anymore. You don’t have to hate him and he doesn’t have to care. You can still think about him in memories whilst knowing that he’s just a friend now.”

  
“I dunno how to do that.”

  
“He may not respond badly, though. I think he needs some time if you’re willing to give him it.”

  
“What if he does? I dunno how to just put it all in the past, what if he just ignores what the songs mean and it’s really the end.”

  
“What if it isn’t? I’m trying to make sure you’re able to take it if it is, but what if it isn’t? What if it goes exactly how you want?”

  
“I dunno. I might cry. I will cry, I usually do when it comes to him, for good or for bad. Wouldn’t it be great if he loved it though?” 2-D grinned at the image in his head. “I’d cry and never stop.”

  
When he leaves the room he makes his way back through reception to leave, turning the corner to the patient waiting room to put his paper cup in the bin before he goes. He stops to zip up his jacket and spots a man sat straight in front of him with a hoodie pulled over his eyes, hunched over with his head down. 2-D takes a full look of him and swears he recognises the posture, but why would Murdoc be hiding his face away from where he could get publicity? 

  
The man looks up and of course it’s Murdoc. When is anything ever simple?

  
2-D startles. “Hi,” He says, putting his hands in his pockets.

  
Murdoc glances around in rapid movements and hunches down further. He tugs the hood over his eyes after he meets 2-D's gaze. He cracks his knuckles in one motion. “Satan save the private health sector,” He grunts under his breath.

  
2-D keeps staring at him. How had he managed to come to the same private branch of mental health services as him? Why doesn’t he want people to notice him and get all their pictures and autographs? Is he ashamed?

  
Murdoc presses his knees together, checks his watch and cracks the knuckles of his other hand. 2-D leaves him be.

-

Noodle has a climate change documentary playing when 2-D comes home. She'd become concerned with the state of the world during her trip to Iran and had come back with a head full of knowledge and wanted to do every possible thing about it. These days, if the TV was on, it was playing David Attenborough documentaries, science conventions or interviews with environmentalists. 2-D doesn’t pretend to understand it all like she did but he guesses it must be pretty important. She's been talking about using this time, the tipping point of the world as we know it, to make an album with a nostalgic sound and that is definitely something 2-D understands. He sits down next to her on the sofa and tries to follow what they’re talking about on-screen. Personally, he'd rather watch something about the undead rising and decimating the human world with gruesome bites to the leg but there probably aren’t many documentaries about that on the BBC. Noodle wordlessly passes over a bag of some kind of vegan snack she’s been buying recently and he takes a few. 2-D wants to tell her about seeing Murdoc at therapy earlier but he’s pretty sure that he hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone, not even him. The way he was sat with a hood over his eyes, hunched over and had chosen not to use a public NHS service where there would be more people – it was just weird. 2-D had never been ashamed of going. He wasn’t at all nondescript or forgettable and he had, in fact, been recognised a few times but everyone had either been kind about it or not even registered what he was doing there. Murdoc loved attention. It was all very strange.

  
_You aren’t the same person you were and neither is he._

  
But why not? Why couldn’t everything have stayed the same; Murdoc and 2-D and locking themselves in Murdoc's dad's house in case he came home early, hanging out in the grotty little park at stupid hours in the morning sharing cigarettes and near freezing to death, being 19 and in love? 

  
Noodle shakes the bag at 2-D again and he hears Russel's truck pull up outside and he knows why it couldn’t have stayed the same; why it shouldn’t. He loves them both and can’t wish for them not to have met. Russel grumbles when he can’t hunt so much due to 2-D and Noodle's veganism and Noodle argues with 2-D about forgetting to turn off the lights all over the place but he loves them the same. How can he exist, though, needing Noodle and Russel and also missing the simpler days with Murdoc before all the hurt and then the scars in the aftermath? He loves the fame and the fans and being able to sing in front of thousands and be loved but he misses the days before. He misses hanging from the monkey bars and being able to touch the ground below him as Murdoc sulked about being shorter than him, pulling the ring top off his can of beer and flicking it at 2-D. He misses staggering around Stoke-on-Trent when it was pitch black in winter and falling asleep back-to-back, shivering on the bench outside the market because Murdoc didn’t want to go home that night and 2-D was too nervous to take him back to his own parents' house. He misses Jamaica where they had more women than they’d ever had before and yet Murdoc almost kissed him, leaning towards him on the beach after midnight but 2-D had stopped him. Because it was so much scarier than a meaningless fuck when he didn’t have so many other people to choose.

  
A door opens and shuts somewhere nearby, snapping 2-D out of his memories. It'll be Russel dragging a carcass or a sack of farm vegetables behind him. He emerges into the room with a net bags filled with onions and carrots and 2-D opens his mouth to greet him as Murdoc comes into view behind him, nodding at Russel and saying something too quiet to hear. He looks up to see 2-D trying not to react and stops talking. He's holding one of Noodle’s reusable shopping bags and he takes it with him as he leaves without saying anything, presumably to go to the kitchen. 2-D makes a gesture at Russel to try and provoke an explanation but Russel just shrugs.

  
“I don’t know, man, he just came up as I was getting shit out the truck.” Russel leaves the vegetables on the coffee table to put in the garage later. Silence falls across the three of them. Noodle and Russel both turn to look at 2-D.

  
“What?” 2-D shuffles away to the end of the sofa. “What’s going on?”

  
“I think he wants to talk to you,” Russel says. Noodle nods, chewing her snacks.

  
“Eh? Well, he can tell me himself.” 2-D crosses his arms but his heart isn’t in it.

  
“He’s going to but it’s so much easier if you just tell him. I want to make an album, you know.” Noodle rolls her eyes but smiles at him in reassurance after she's done speaking. “You don’t _have_ to go and get him though.”

  
“How do you know he wants to talk?” 2-D glances between to two of them.

  
“Well, mainly because he just told me as we came in,” Russel starts, “but also because he hasn’t stopped playing the last album all alone in his room when he thinks it’s too quiet for anyone else to hear.”

  
2-D's eyes widen. “I never heard that.”

  
“Lucky for you. I couldn't forget the drum parts for that whole album now even if I tried.”

  
They all grow quiet again. 2-D twists his hands and pops his finger joints one by one.  
“But, please, make him talk to you faster; we have an album to do,” Noodle warns, though her voice is playful.

  
2-D shuffles and makes a move to stand up but, before he can get up, Noodle reaches for his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He grins at her even though his heart is hammering. He’s pretty sure he’s happy. Before he asks himself what Murdoc thought, what he will say, how he’s going to react, 2-D knows that Murdoc cared enough to listen to the album over and over. He knows that he must have heard the lyrics for what they were and knows that he wants to talk about it. 

  
As soon as he shuts the living room door behind him, his palms start sweating. His legs shake a little more with every step and 2-D wishes the layout of the building was simpler because by the time he reaches the kitchen, ambiguous sounds audible from outside the door, he can barely stand. He takes a deep breath in and out, then another and another. His head starts to ache with phantom pains purely under the anxiety and he holds it in his hands as he does his breathing exercises. His brain crows for painkillers but 2-D knows he doesn’t need them, not for this. He stretches his arms above his head and breathes out steadily as he lowers them again. The pain in his head ebbs away into a dull pressure. He inhales, grabs the door handle, exhales and enters the kitchen.

  
Murdoc startles and turns around from the fridge with beer cans in his hand, the ripped cardboard packs strewn on the table. He turns back around, bending down to fit the cans in the door and bottom shelf of the fridge.

  
“Hi.” Comes the gruff sound from behind the table, Murdoc no longer visible below it.

  
“Hello,” 2-D replies. For a while, that’s all they say. The clunk of aluminium cans onto glass shelves sets 2-D on edge. “What're you doing?” He finally asks.

  
“Uh, just stocking the fridge,” Murdoc answers, now with only the rumpled spikes on the top of his head visible.

  
“For what? Is it someone’s birthday?” 2-D panics. He hopes not.

  
Murdoc laughs lightly. “No, just wanted them in.”

  
“Thought you went for all the hard stuff nowadays.” 2-D looks at the cans but can’t quite make out the brand.

  
“I do. But you,” Murdoc reappears and grabs more cans, “you never change.”

  
In that moment 2-D recognises the brand. His mouth falls open a little before he catches himself. He sees Murdoc smirk before he ducks back down to the fridge and looks back at the cans.

  
“Are they...”

  
“They certainly are.” Murdoc’s voice rises over the table. And they are. They’re the same kind of beer that they used to buy from the off-licence on the corner in Stoke most nights when they couldn’t go to Murdoc’s house because his dad was around. They’re the same ones they used to drink hanging off the monkey bars when 2-D would spill it all over himself and Murdoc would laugh at him. They’re the same ones they had to warm themselves that cold night when Murdoc didn’t want to go home and 2-D didn’t want him to be alone.

  
“Oh. Wow.” 2-D can’t stop looking at the cans. He can’t remember when he stopped drinking them. Did they just become unpopular in the shops? He can’t stop looking and remembering and panicking inside. “You know I do drink other stuff too.”

  
Murdoc pops back up and closes the fridge door, smiling and shaking his head. “Like what?”

  
“Tequila. Drank it all the time in Guadalupe.” He says to distract both of them from how flustered he's getting. What is going on?

  
“Ah, unfortunately I didn’t buy any tequila. But I did buy a fuck-ton of our beers and, I don’t know, it’s been weird recently. I’ve made it weird recently, I just wanted to do something normal like old times.”

  
“Really?” _Just like old times._

  
“Yeah, I mean, if you want. There’s that crummy little baby park in the estate and I don’t think anyone’s gonna be there at... 11... or something, so. Yeah.”

  
“Were gonna go out late drinking in the park?” 2-D starts giggling.

  
“Yeah, what’s wrong with it?” Murdoc’s eyebrows furrow.

  
“Nothing,” 2-D shakes his head, grinning, “I was just thinking about it just then, before you came back. We both wanna go and get smashed in the play area and we don’t even have parents here to hide it from! You're more than half a century old, Murdoc!”

  
Murdoc smiles devilishly. “You’re coming anyway. It’s my band so you have to.”

  
“Of course I’m coming. I’m 20, I’m 20.”

  
“Oh, yeah, I’m 32 and all.”

  
“Hey, wait a minute, why didn’t we ever go to a pub?”

  
Murdoc looks offended. “Because I’m banned from every pub in Stoke-on-Trent for ‘disorderly conduct’, obviously.”

  
“Eh? So I froze my arse off in winter ‘cause you got in fights and lost?”

  
“Got in fights and won.”

  
2-D turns his head to the side and traces Murdoc’s bumpy nose shape over his own with his finger. “I think it’s probably got in fights and lost.”

  
“Sod off.” Murdoc grins and sticks up his middle finger, then stops smiling and shuffles his feet, looking around. He stretches his back and pushes all the cardboard into the middle of the table for someone else to deal with. The rubbish isn't his job. His gaze returns to 2-D and he raises his eyebrows in expectation. “So, 11 o'clock?”

  
2-D nods, heart beating hard, fuelling the stupid grin on his face. “11 o'clock.”


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit longer than all the other ones just to wrap it up more smoothly.

Three outfit changes come and go and 2-D decides to just put on the same clothes he was wearing earlier. He pulls a cigarette from the pack lying on the bedside table and finishes it in two minutes, his breath quick and shallow. His brand tastes so much different to Murdoc’s. Whenever he'd gotten a cigarette out of him it had always left him hacking his lungs up whether they were cheap corner shop sticks or king sized cigarettes with good tobacco. 2-D still can’t handle high tar smokes like Murdoc's even after all these years, though there had always been something special about being offered one from Murdoc's pack that made the coughing worth it. He leans across the pillow to stub out the cigarette butt on the ashtray and walks over to stand in front of the mirror. He gives himself a once-over and starts to turn to check his angles before he stops himself. He’s being stupid. He’s going for night-time drinks with a friend. It’ll just be nostalgic fun. He swaps the jacket he has laid out ready on his bed for a one in denim with patches all over the sleeves – the collection had built up whenever he saw a patch that looked cool. A green zombie head, flaming skull and the number two had been among the first, the “2” from when Murdoc had just given him his nickname and he'd instantly loved it. He stares at the denim jacket on the bed, looks to the leather jacket in his hands, puts the leather one away and puts the denim one on. He steps back into the mirror reflection, grimaces, takes the jacket off, moves to get the leather one back and stops himself. He has to stop being stupid. He breathes in, breathes out and sits down on the edge of his bed. He shuts the closet door with his foot and checks the time. Six o'clock.

  
He hangs around the kitchen as Russel cooks chilli in two pans; one beef mince and one quorn. He sneaks morsels of chilli into his mouth when Russel isn’t looking, snoops in the spice cupboard and then perches on the counter, watching the magic happen. He almost manages to stay pestering Russel up until the meal is ready but then Russel warns him that if he keeps hanging around then he'll have to help. He scrambles to the living room and listens while Noodle talks at him about what she'd just learned on TV until dinner is ready at last.

  
2-D picks at his food, trying to take as long as possible. Murdoc shoots quick, awkward glances at him from his armchair by the sofa as the four of them eat in front of the TV. 2-D's leg bounces up and down, counting the seconds and milliseconds to go. When they finish eating, Murdoc takes the plates to wash them. This has become a routine that made everyone exchange odd looks at first but is now completely usual. Russel cooks and shops, Noodle dusts and vacuums, 2-D takes out the bins and Murdoc cleans the plates and bathrooms. It’s not a well-oiled machine; often there are streaks of dust and dirt on shelves, the bins regularly overflow onto the floor in all rooms and Murdoc clearly isn’t very fond of cleaning, judging by the state of the bathrooms. He does it anyway. Murdoc comes back from the kitchen with a new horror DVD that 2-D only half-watches. Staccato violin, creaky floorboards and nails scraping behind doors punctuate pitch black nightfall, dripping blood, and broken bones. 2-D stares through the screen, through the monster-thing's hollow eyes, and counts. It takes 10 minutes for the story to set itself up, 30 minutes for the characters to be in mortal danger, 40 for someone to die horribly and 60 for everything that could go wrong to go wrong. By the time it’s finished with a devastating cliff-hanger, it’s only half ten.

  
2-D stretches and then slumps in place, flopped on the sofa with his head on his chest, back on the seat and legs splayed out on the floor. Noodle and Russel clear away the bags of snacks as Murdoc retrieves the disc from the DVD player and leaves to put it back. 2-D sighs, looks at his watch, sighs and stands. He rubs his hands together and taps his fingers against each other. He puts his hands in his pockets, shuffles a little, takes his hands out his pockets, clicks the buttons on his watch and puts his hands back in his pockets. 10:31.

  
Murdoc enters the room again and both of them freeze. Murdoc steps back, steps forward and stops again. He puts his hands behind his back and rocks back and forth on his feet.

  
“So...” Murdoc extends the vowel, “do you wanna just go now?”

  
“It-it's, um, half ten,” 2-D replies, instantly feeling stupid for it.

  
Murdoc looks away and smacks his lips together. “Well. Alright. Whenever you’re ready, mate.”

  
“No, I’m ready! I’m ready, I just didn’t know if you were. Like, I don’t know. I’m ready, though.” 2-D twists his hands together.

  
Murdoc smiles. “Right, well.” He nods. “Let’s go?”

  
“I’ll get my jacket.”

  
“Yeah, I’ll get the beers and stuff.” They both move at the same time, pause, gesture to let the other man past and laugh. “Ah, I’m stupid today,” Murdoc chuckles.

  
“Yeah, you might wanna take it easy on the beers, you senile old man.”

  
“Shut up you old wanker,” He calls after him as he walks back to his room.

  
Stood by his bed, 2-D picks up the denim jacket and puts it on, refusing to look in the mirror. He shakes his head to ruffle his hair a little as he pulls the closet door open and grabs a pair of boots. Sitting on his bed to pull them on, he glances at the bottle of painkillers by the bedside and his head aches out of nowhere. He places his hands around his head, closes his eyes and breathes. It’s not a good idea. It won’t be good with the drink. He doesn’t even actually need them. But the phantom ache throbs from the back of his skull to his forehead and fills up to both sides of his head, his chest is tight with anxiety and needs relief and he's been doing so well for ages – what’s one use going to do? He reaches for the bottle, pain already leaving him.

  
A knock sounds at his door and he sits up straight, restraining his hands under his legs.

  
“You ready?” Murdoc’s gravelly voice rumbles through the door.

  
“Yeah.” 2-D stands up and shoves the pill bottle in the drawer. “Yeah, just a minute.” He stands in front of the mirror, shakes his head at himself and moves out of the reflection. He pauses, looks down at himself and steps back to check himself. He moves a hand to fix his hair but stops himself. _Breathe in, breathe out_. He pulls the door open.

  
Murdoc is stood outside, holding aloft a plastic bag stuffed with cans. He shakes it ceremoniously. “Ta-da!”

  
2-D smiles and rolls his eyes. His gaze lands on the cape draped around Murdoc's shoulders. “Oh, sod off, you’re wearing that old thing?”

  
Murdoc smirks and holds the corners of the cape, spreading it out. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?”

  
“I hate it.”

  
“I know,” He laughs, “that’s why I love the bloody thing.”

  
“You look like a cheap vampire.”

  
Murdoc lays a hand on his chest, mock-flattered. “Thank you.” He smiles, head tilted away.

  
“I can’t believe I’m gonna go out into the cold all night with an creepy old pervert vampire.”

  
“Ah, ah, a creepy old pervert vampire _with_ beers.” He shakes the bag.

  
“Oh, yeah, alright then.” 2-D grins and walks out into the corridor. Murdoc pushes him lightly with his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or feel scared or cower. He pushes him back, rattling an old vinyl on the wall. Murdoc makes a pretend move to smack him, swatting the air above him. 

-

It’s not as cold as it had been when the two of them had gone out years ago and 2-D thinks absently to Noodle's documentaries. He wonders if they might actually be onto something. The pavement is damp from the rain of a few hours ago and his boots start to get sucked into the mud as soon as they cross the grassy area behind the estate. The footpath shortcut to the park is soggy with fallen leaves and slick with dirt. A drop of rain that had been waiting on a free branch drops onto his head and he grimaces. He looks over at Murdoc, who is reaching to dig through his back pocket one-handed as he carries the bag, searching for his cigarette packet. He fishes it out and drops it into the plastic bag for easier access.

  
The trees over the footpath open up directly into the park, covered in blue dusk and specks of leftover rain. Murdoc bounds up the steps to the climbing structure and sits down on the metal floor of one of the squares between monkey bars and obstacles. 2-D follows, gingerly sitting next to him in the driest patch of metal. He winces as he touches the floor. The air isn't too cold yet but the metal is already freezing, preceeding the drop in temperature in the hours to come. Quiet, Murdoc takes a cigarette from the bag and lights it. He takes a deep inhale, tilts his head up and blows the smoke in a column above him before he wind distorts the shape. He takes another puff and then hands the cigarette to 2-D. He takes it from Murdoc with a nod of thanks and takes a drag. The heavier smoke that Murdoc favours is harsh to his throat and 2-D forces down a cough. He returns it and exhales the smoke, white against the darkening sky.

  
“Well,” Murdoc begins as he rustles the bag, pulling out two ice-cold cans, “it’s as grim of a night as ever.” 

  
“Eh, it’s okay.” 2-D grabs a can and cracks it open. “Not as bad as when we slept outside all night in winter. I thought all my toes had fallen off when I woke up, you know. I’m serious!”

  
Murdoc’s laughing at him. “It wasn’t that bad.” The pop and hiss of the ringpull opening the can finishes his sentence. “Better than being with that bastard.”

  
“What’s he doing now?”

  
“Fuck if I know. Dead, I hope, or dying.” He takes a drink. “Anyway."

  
“Yeah.” 

  
Murdoc never spoke about his father for very long. He takes a long drink and looks up to the sky. 2-D looks up with him.

  
“Funny how you can’t see stars anymore,” Murdoc remarks.

  
“Yeah, it’s the, um, the pollution. Noodle talks about it all the time.”

  
“Oh, huh. Yeah. She’s grown up smart, hasn’t she?”

  
2-D's heart swells with pride. “Yeah, she has. I wish I was smart like her.”

  
“What would you wanna do that for? Thinking is annoying.”

  
“Yeah, sometimes. A lot, sometimes. Often. My therapist helps me, though.”

  
Murdoc visibly bristles at the word. “You saw me today.”

  
“Yeah.” 2-D swallows a mouthful of beer. “How did it go?” He asks tentatively.

  
“Fine.” Murdoc drags on his cigarette and passes it on. He loosens a little. “It was hard. It always is, I guess. I’ve been going for a bit and it doesn’t really get easy.”

  
“How long?” 2-D wheezes, breathing out the smoke.

  
“Pretty much since I got back on dry land, so a good few years.” He takes the cigarette back, drinks, and smokes it again.

  
“So it must be working, then, at least a little bit?”

  
“I don’t know, you tell me.” Murdoc looks at him, half-smiling with his cigarette hanging between his lips and it really feels like it did years ago. He has a few more wrinkles, his hair is messier and his eyes are kinder. He's not going to hit him for looking at him, he’s not going to yell at him and he isn’t going to lock him away. He’s Murdoc; everything he has ever been and nothing like 2-D had ever seen him. He’s the past, present and future and 2-D doesn’t know what to say.

  
“You’re not too bad," He chooses to reply.

  
“You know what I mean. I’ve been working on everything, you know? It was all just... reflexes and stuff and apparently you can un-learn all that stuff. I think it’s been working, anyway. Do you?” He looks at 2-D, looks away and finishes his beer.

  
“I..." He knows what this conversation is turning into. "I didn’t wait the whole time, though.” 2-D taps his fingers together.

  
“I don’t care that you went out with Ace. I don’t care if you shagged everyone in the planet between then and now. Am I...” He positions his cigarette and takes a long drag, eyes closed. “Am I good enough for you now, right now, after everything?”

  
2-D feels like he’s about to crumble. He’s trembling so hard that he’s perfectly still, muscles tight and tense even though they feel like they’re about to snap. “What are you asking?”

  
Murdoc opens another beer, spilling a little on his trousers in his unsteady grasp. “I don’t know.” He drinks. “I listened to all your songs, over and over. They were... good. They were torture. They were just a lot for me. Especially since you wrote them after I was such a prick to you. They’re about me, aren’t they?”

  
“Yeah. Every one.” 2-D mumbles. “Every one.”

  
Murdoc sighs a mouthful of smoke. “That’s what I'd heard. That’s why I didn’t want to listen to it until I was better than I've been. I wasn’t sure what it would be and I knew it would kill me if you were just... agonising over me.” He takes a breath of smoke and gives the cigarette to 2-D. “They were good. They were just... raw. I didn’t know you could write that. About me. Everything, the way you felt better without me in those first few songs. That hurt. But the way you came back down, with all of those... those _lyrics_. Satan, I could have died.”

  
“I meant it.” 2-D takes some smoke and coughs it out. “I didn’t write them to be released; I just wrote everything, like my therapist said. Then everyone liked them, so we made it rhyme and stuff and made an album about it.”

  
“Do you still?” Murdoc asks, taking his cigarette back.

  
“What?”

  
“You meant it.” He takes a drag, looking at 2-D as he exhales. “Do you still mean it?”

  
The lyrics fill his head and he finishes his can to knock them back. He already knows the answer. “Yeah, I do.”

  
“Which ones?” Murdoc glances at him, looks away and looks back, leg bouncing up and down though his gaze remains fixed on 2-D.

  
2-D averts his eyes and grabs another can. He’s silent as he opens it into Murdoc's gaze and finishes half of it in one drink. He breathes, tucks his knees up to his chest and locks eyes with Murdoc. Something clicks into place in his chest. He feels light from his head to his feet and he shuffles closer so he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Murdoc. It's colder on this match of metal, devoid of body heat and spotted with raindrops, but Murdoc is warm and his eyes are hopeful and 2-D rests his head on his shoulder and sings.

  
“I will always think about you.”

  
“Always" is often a word misused. “I will always love you”, “always 100% British chicken breast”, “it always gets better”, did they really mean it? 2-D knew when he wrote the line, when he was 20 and in love, when he sang it just now, that he always has and always will. He spent hours in the freezing winter cold and pouring autumn rain and bustling summer nightlife to be with Murdoc. He thought about Murdoc so much that it drove him insane and brought him back to reality and left him in limbo when he was without him. Every day he'd lived since 1998 reminded him of Murdoc in some way. Now, with the taste of Murdoc's smoke in his mouth, the sight of Murdoc's leather jacket and god-awful cape underneath him and the warmth of Murdoc’s shoulder against his cheek, he wouldn’t mind having that one solitary thought forever.

  
Very slowly, Murdoc's arm moves with a squeak of leather and his hand wraps around 2-D's arm, gently pressing him closer. “So,” he speaks, voice quiet and rumbling, “what I’m trying to say is I’ve worked my hardest to make up for how shit I’ve been. I’m sorry for being a prick. I’m sorry for yelling, insulting you and ignoring you. I’m sorry for hitting and kicking and smacking you. I’m sorry for keeping you prisoner, drowning you and doing that thing with the whale. I’m sorry for sending a guy to get you from the airport instead of coming myself, I'm sorry for not hugging you when you came back-" Murdoc chokes. 2-D doesn’t look up because his own eyes are full of tears but he’s sure that Murdoc is crying. He presses his body closer to his side. “I’m sorry for being a coward and ignoring you. I’m sorry for not listening to your album. I’m just sorry for being here.”

  
“Don’t say that.” 2-D's voice trembles. “Muds, don’t say that.”

  
“I’m sorry I've been so awful for you.”

  
“Don’t say that. That's not all you are.” Murdoc laughs humourlessly and flicks his finished cigarette butt through the monkey bars. 2-D urges him, “You've done a lot of good too, especially now. I dunno, I’ve got good memories of you too. There’s a reason I stayed.”

  
“It doesn’t make a difference after everything I did.”

  
“Yes it does! Everything you’ve apologised for and fixed makes a difference and all the good you’ve done makes a difference, too.”

  
Murdoc makes a doubtful hum. “What did I ever do? Bought you beers and shagged you when I had no other options – what a top notch bloke.”

  
2-D straightens up off Murdoc’s shoulder and shakes his head. “You have no idea. You gave me all this fame from the band, Russel and Noodle, visiting all those places on tour, money, birds – I wouldn’t have had that without you.”

  
“You’d still have all your teeth and no migraines.” Murdoc mumbles through a new cigarette clicking the lighter aflame.

  
“No, but look at how sexy this is.” 2-D tips his head back, bares his teeth and flicks his tongue in between the gap where his front teeth should be.

  
Murdoc chuckles though his eyes seem tired and heavy. “Don’t put me on a pedestal.”

  
“Oh, no, you were also a complete wanker and a miserable sod but I forgive you because of all of that, and everything you just apologised for and all the stuff you worked on, I did notice all of that. And all of this.” 2-D leans back against the fence of the climbing structure and presses his knee to Murdoc’s, feeling him shiver at the contact. 

  
Everywhere they're touching – shoulders, elbows and knees – seems to be an electrical port; a plug to a socket from which heat floods into 2-D and makes him flustered. It shouldn’t, considering how they’d been much closer years ago, but this seems so different. So much more careful and caged than when they could say whatever they felt and pretend it was just hormones, yet infinitely more intimate and meaningful. 2-D’s throat feels tight. He takes a drink and finishes his second can as Murdoc reaches for his fifth. He hands one over to him and their hands brush. It feels like 2-D's spine drops out of him with how quickly that turns him to jelly.

  
“So, what is ‘this’, anyway?” Murdoc asks from above him. 2-D is spread out across the entire metal floor with his feet dangling off the edge in order to be short enough to rest on his shoulder and he gets up a little so that their heads are leaned together.

  
“Well, haven’t you waited and worked long enough to know what it’s gonna be?” 2-D replies light-heartedly.

  
“It’s not about me.” He drinks.

  
“’Course it is. It’s about us so it’s about you, too. You spend so much time now just on me, don’t you?” Murdoc folds his arms, defensive now in embarrassment. 2-D reaches for the cigarette and pushes his arms open again. “What do you want, Muds?”

  
“Me? What? What do you mean? What do _you_ want?”

  
2-D sighs. “Okay. I want you to be just like this; friendly and funny like you were ages ago but with that, um, that sort of... thing you do. When you’re being nice to me like you never used to be. Like old Murdoc but all nice-like.”

  
“All you want is for me to be me?”

  
“I _want_ to know what you want.”

  
Murdoc holds a hand to his forehead and sighs. “I want a lot of things. I want to go back in time and not be like that. I want to go further back in time and escape my bastard father’s house and, I don’t know, rock up at the Samaritans and do something normal with my life. I want to have a normal life, with you. I want to have a crazy rock star life with you. I guess I just want to be with you but I don’t know if I can. I want to be forgiven and I want something... hm, beyond that. I want it all to be erased and I want to be with you but I just can’t after everything I’ve done.”

  
“I do forgive you, Murdoc. It’s okay now; you're okay now and you’re nice now and I’ve had all that therapy for it so doesn’t that make it erased and okay?”

  
“I don’t know. I want to know. I want a lot of things that I can’t have. I want to be different to who I am. I want you.”

  
“You can have me.” As 2-D says this, Murdoc sits straighter and shakes his head. “Muds, you can. That’s what I want, too. I like you the way you are right now, I don’t want you to be different. It's all okay now. If that’s what you want, you can. I want to.”

  
Murdoc puts his head in his hands. When he speaks next, his voice is muffled and strained. “I just want to cry. All the time. I don’t know what to do.”

  
“Just try it out. You’ve had more time to practise than anyone. Why don’t you try? Can we try?”

  
Murdoc raises his head and sits back with 2-D. He breathes slowly, deeply and finishes his can. “You don’t want to do that.”

  
“How would you know that, then?”

  
“I'll be terrible. I’ll forget myself once I’ve finally got you with me and I’ll do something terrible.”

  
“No you won’t, you know that. You’re too careful for that.”

  
“Well, it’ll be terrible. I don’t do very much. I don’t have many friends. I’m generally dislikeable, grumpy, miserable, aggressive, crass, rude and annoying.”

  
“And I like you. I want to be with you.”

  
“It’ll be terrible anyway! Being around me is terrible.”

  
“No it isn’t.” 2-D places a hand on Murdoc's arm and looks at him, drawing their eyes together. “Not to me. Not when it’s you. You’re witty and stupid and lively and kind and smart and talented and I want us to try. Can we try?”

  
“How do we even start?” Murdoc looks to 2-D's lips, then to his eyes, then lower... “I’m not good at this serious stuff. I’ve never really done it before, not since I was about 16. Do we...” He makes a wide-eyed face and 2-D knows he’s talking about sex.

  
“We don’t have to do anything. We can just be like this but a bit more.” 2-D takes a drag of the cigarette, washes away his incoming cough with a drink and passes it to Murdoc.

  
“What’s more?” Murdoc finishes the cigarette and stubs it out on the metal floor.

  
“Just small things, um, you know, like... saying things that we couldn’t say before and doing things we couldn’t do.” 

  
“So...” Murdoc sets his can down next to him and rubs the cold condensation on his trousers. He looks at his hand, flexes his fingers and puts it down next to 2-D's. The two of them make eye contact and Murdoc looks away. His finger twitches, shuffles and touches 2-D's hand. He looks at 2-D again. When he smiles, he lays his hand on top of 2-D's and pauses. 2-D twists his hand around to clutch Murdoc's, making the final distance. Murdoc makes a barely audible gasp and squeezes 2-D's hand. “Wow,” He whispers.

  
“Are you eight?” 2-D scoffs, though he is noticeably flushed and breathing heavier.

  
“Shut up,” Murdoc chuckles and strokes 2-D's thumb with his own. “This is nice. It’s different. I don’t know what I expected.”

  
“I like this,” 2-D tells him quietly.

  
“Yeah, I do too. I like not rushing into things like I always do. I like this. I like you.”

  
“I like you.” 2-D smiles, tapping his can with his free hand. He feels like he’s tense and soft all over, hot and cold and light and heavy and he’s trembling.

  
“Can I say something?” Murdoc shifts in place, looking down. “It’s weird, I can’t remember saying it for a while, maybe ever, not like this...”

  
“What is it?”

  
Murdoc takes a drink. “We always danced around saying it, you know? I’ve never written it in songs and I didn’t think I’d ever get to say it out loud but, just, every time I see you it’s a thought I have. I don’t know, it’s stupid, but I say it all the time in my head yet I can’t even say it in real life.”

  
“Then say it now. I said we can, uh, say things we couldn’t say before.” 2-D's heart is in his throat and his thoughts are exploding in his head. _Just say it, say it, say it._

  
“But I don’t know if I can. I feel terrible for it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything because of it.”

  
2-D groans. “I’m never gonna do anything I don’t wanna do. I’ve had therapy, I’ve healed, I’m smashing. Say what you want.”

  
The hand over his gets tighter. “This is just so nice. I never thought I’d get something nice. It was always that I'd get hurt by the people who were supposed to love me and I'd hurt the ones I was supposed to love. It was always like that. But you were my friend even though I hurt you. You weren’t like that with me, you know? And it was different. I wanted to be different. I _am_ different. It’s all because of you. You’re everything.” Murdoc's eyes meet 2-D's and stay gazing at him, soft and reflecting the light of the streetlamp. “I guess, I don’t know... You know what I mean.”

  
2-D smiles and hooks his leg over Murdoc's, pressing the two of them close. “It’s alright, Murdoc. I know what you mean.”

  
Murdoc stammers, removes his hand and places it on 2-D's knee. “I should say it. I should. It’s hard. I’m sorry.” He sighs. 2-D looks at him and he looks back. “I love you,” He breathes at long last.

  
2-D practically melts through the holes in the metal floor. His heart is soaring and his face is split into a stupid beaming grin and absolutely nothing could sound better than Murdoc's gravelly voice shaping those words. With no particular explanation, 2-D starts giggling. He’s not even that tipsy yet but he’s flushed pink to the ends of his ears and Murdoc is smiling back at him and he feels so happy that he could ascend. Murdoc laughs, shaking his head, and wraps his arms around 2-D. He turns the two of them so they're pressed chest-to-chest and laughing. His hand comes up into 2-D's hair and cups the back of his head where he’s resting his chin on Murdoc's shoulder.

  
“I love you,” Murdoc repeats through his laughter. “I love you, I love you, you numpty, I love you.”

  
2-D pulls back to look Murdoc in the eyes. He smiles. “You old sod, I love you too.”

  
He leans back into Murdoc’s embrace. The air around them is cold and ever-cooling but Murdoc is warm and Murdoc is everything. The beer in his system makes him care less about it anyway. 

  
They’ll wake up at an obscure time of day soaked in rain after having fallen asleep in the park like they did years ago. Murdoc's cigarette packet will be soaked through and 2-D will need the toilet as if he’d never been in his life and they’ll curse and grumble and scramble to get back home to shelter. But now, huddled against each other for warmth, it’s just like old times and so much more. Right now, happy and buzzed and loving and loved, it’s like 2-D is 20 and dreaming. Now, in this moment, they are forgiving and forgiven and brand new people, still connected to the moment it began.


End file.
